Which came first - the chicken or the egg party?

11:23am Thursday 13th March 2008

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IN the words of the old adage, if you want something doing properly, do it yourself.

The house had been going through a dry social patch; we were feeling a little jaded with the local pubs and the parties and the houses that contained them had been looking rather lacklustre of late. What could possibly inject the life back into night-time Nottingham? Why, the first Egg party in living memory, of course! That's right, we asked around and to our astonishment, nobody had coined this genius theme before. Forget your Tarts and Vicars, your Cowboys and Indians - the Egg party was a celebration in wonder of the humble and too oft overlooked egg.

We came across opposition, true - for some, this was high concept partying, and those who couldn't hack it stayed away. But for the rest, the long hoped-for chance to dress as a chicken, an omelette or even Sir Egbert of Wessex was at last at hand.

But I'm making it sound like a scrambled utopia, when really, anyone who's had the guts to try it will know that organising a party is a unique brand of hell. This was the first house-party we dared to throw and I kept having a terrible thought that I'd be sitting alone in a papier-mâché daffodil head-dress, knocking back the Advocaat and weeping for most of the night. Oh no, the fear of having an empty house and a full bowl of uneaten mini-eggs is not a new one for me.

Growing up, we had our fair share of decent birthday bashes that, in retrospect, went without a hitch. But, as good as they were, were they really worth the sleepless nights and pleas that my mummy should phone your mummy, just to firm things up?

And it wasn't as if these worries weren't unfounded (although, hopefully at age eight they were) - it's almost as if people, myself included, take a perverse pleasure in watching these sorts of endeavours fail with the belief that someone actually putting effort into doing something for the enjoyment of others is just asking for a fall.

I found myself, more than usual, wishing my twin sister was here at university with me - she doubled the guest-pulling power and was a convenient fall-back if it all went belly up.

Worries were cast aside, however, and we ploughed on with preparations - a trip to Bargain Booze, a new mop bucket to dump it all in, some Quaker Oats for the Easter nests. . .

And happily I can report that I'd once again underestimated the Midlands - the egg party was embraced, by friend and foe alike (when it comes to guests, unfortunately, it's quantity not quality that proves a winner). We even had a few bemused gatecrashers who'd presumed they were walking into your average, egg-less party - I like to think they were pleasantly surprised. In fact, I hear on the grapevine that this party is now being hailed as the best egg-party in living memory.