Families together add frisson to the most ordinary occasions

Getting the family together is usually a good thing. Getting two families together, say like your own and the in-laws, is not always a good thing. And, I can say from experience from the weekend’s double Christening of the offspring of the Sisters’ - Posh and Country Living - that getting three families together at the same time is NEVER a good thing.

I’m putting it on the record right now that none of this was my idea. I have already had my own two childer baptised in as stress-free an environment as possible. I didn’t double up with anyone, I didn’t invite friends and both occasions were marked by a lock of sandwiches and tay back at the house.

Times have apparently changed so when Country Living Sister told me, not asked me, told me that she wanted a double Christening with the Posh Sister and I would have to organise it in Dundalk, there was no saying no to her. She was quite insistent, as only Country Living can be.

I organised the priest, a great man who understands the Campbells’ weird ways and I organised the venue for the tay afterwards. But this being a joint enterprise between Posh and Country, the lock of sambos and a vat of instant coffee wasn’t going to cut it. I ‘scoped’ a few venues on my week off last month, asking them for detailed propositions for the event, emailing menus to the Sisters, the Country Living of whom actually has a background in catering, worse luck.

The Posh Sister, as you can imagine with her nickname, is not one for a bit of chicken curry and chips, and neither is the super-posh family she’s married into. Anyhow, after a lot of emailing the sisters, the venue, the sisters again and the venue with their queries and questions, I believed I had it all sorted.

Then, as the Campbells gathered en masse, much like a plague that tormented ancient Egypt, a few of the siblings said to me about the Posh Sister’s penchant to be late for everything. There was no way I was going to have the in-laws, the out-laws and the Campbells all milling around the church, waiting for her, opening up a lot of opportunities for rows before we even got inside.

I told the Posh Sister there was only one thing I wanted her to do and that was to be on time. She looked at me as if I had bit her on the face. ‘Shut up’, I said. ‘You know you are always late. You have got to be there at 4pm. No messing’. She looked at me with those big cow eyes she has and told me faithfully, if not a little tearily, that she would be there on time. Was she? She was not.

As everyone gathered from the four corners of Ireland, my Younger Brother, played Ban Ki Moon, pressing the flesh of whatever randomer got out of a car with a quare registration, whether he knew them or not. He’s like the Ma’s Papal Nuncio, the boy you have to meet before you get to the Pope herself. Time ticked on towards, and then past, four o’clock. I went around the crowd, picking out Campbells and telling them, discreetly, to ring the Posh Sister to find out where she was. She never answered the phone, but wondered, when she did arrive, why she had eight missed calls on her phone. I said nothing.

Thanks to the ever-patient priest, the childer were baptised and there was an audible sigh of relief around the place as we headed to the venue for the grub. Now, it was my time to shine, for the crowd to be over-awed with my organisational skills and my ability to get this show on the road.

But when I arrived, a wee manager type told me that the room was booked for 15, not 30, and the dinner wouldn’t be till half seven, not half six. The legs near went from under me. Country Living Sister wanted to know what was happening, I told her everything was fine, as I urgently whispered to the wee manager to do what he could to put it right. He did his best, and everyone was fed. There was minimum time for bitching afterwards and we were on the way home two hours later. Stress? Yes, double that!