Flying Without Wings

Enchanting harp music graced our ears as we entered the Secret Garden Party, it was intertwined with the sweet song of bluebirds and luminous harmony of a choir of young girls singing. Beautiful people were dancing with each other; they were wearing no shoes but were dressed in the most magical clothing. We had only stepped through a doorway so I was sure we hadn’t left the house and gone outside but we were standing inside the most gorgeous garden. The ground was covered in dark green moss and scattered with button-sized purple flowers and smooth blue-grey stones. The walls were hidden behind curtains of curling and creeping vines that hung heavy with ripe glistening fruit. On one wall a bubbling golden waterfall ran - this I later discovered much to my delight was a cascade of champagne. The high roof was a plethora of golden red leaves crisscrossing across a glass ceiling, the dark glittering night sky poked through the patches of red leaves like it was trying to peep into the party. I looked to the few folk that were relaxing and draped over handsome gold benches near the champagne waterfall. It was humid in the Secret Garden Party and they cooled themselves with fans made of feathers and refilled their glasses from the champagne flowing from the waterfall. My eyes were drawn to the center of the room where the most aromatic feast I had ever seen was served on four square dark wooden tables. Each was adorned with a thick black velvet tablecloth with dancing bronze tassels on the corners. Great golden dishes filled with tantalising fare were nestled among colourful vases filled with unusual flowers. There were dishes of fairy floss pink and lime green figs that were and dripping with amber oozing honey, on another dish mountains of pungent earthy truffles sat amongst crisp roasted potatoes. My eyes travelled over brown walnut halves protruding out of sticky fresh dates and onto avocados with their flesh gouged out to make way for flaked red salmon and sour lemon. Golden flaking baklava and crumbly halva were dotted amongst cubes of soft rose coloured Turkish delight sat next to great bowls of pale labne flecked with bright green pistachio slivers and dusted with bronze cinnamon. Cold cuts of ham had been smothered with thick blackberry jam and great crystal bowls overflowed with dried apricots covered in dark chocolate. Bright orange sweet potato chips glistened with pale green olive oil and sparkled with pink sea salt crystals. On another plate thick beige hummus was dolloped on warm flat bread a scented cheeses were piled high on large lilac platters adorned with fresh berries, quince paste and crisp lavosh. I wanted to devour it all. Bear was serving people food and drink stationed betwixt the four tables, he was now dressed in a crisp white apron and was serving people the delicacies they wished for into their deep glittering bowls. He grunted each time a tipsy elf like women would float up to the tables and point at the dish she wanted to try next. Obediently using delicate silver tongs, Bear would fill their bowls and bow so low that I was sure his great round tummy would burst out of his tight tuxedo at any moment. Next to the tables was a cart filled with colored bottles and glasses of mysterious alcohols. Crystal champagne saucers were filled to the brim with cocktails, prosecco, wine and fine liquors. Emerald green, strawberry red, and canary yellow cocktails waited to be drunk and each one chimed happily from the swishing of ice and fruit as if they were delighted to be passed around and drunk by the assorted guests. Bastian ignored the feast and went straight to the drinks cart. As a bartender he knew what he wanted, he chose a ludicrously green cocktail and smiled with glee as he sipped it.

“It’s a basil smash!” He exclaimed, a sour cocktail made with fresh basil, squeezed lemon and fine gin. I went up to choose my own drink but was instead handed a giant bejeweled goblet which I was disappointed to discover was filled with the sad red wine I had brought. I glared at Bastian as he sipped his green elixir and smacked his lips.

“Not concerned about coming to this party anymore are you?” I glowered at him.

“Oh come on Bea, it seems OK in here. There is music and dancing, and look at that food and we don’t have to hide Marvillo or his wings in here. It seems like a swell party to me. Have some baklava I know it’s your favourite it will cheer you up.” I continued to glare at him and his drink not convinced by a word he said. “Go on I’ll get you a saucer of prosecco.” He insisted and gave me a loving nod. I did love baklava and thought one piece wouldn’t hurt and wove my way through the food tables. A few minutes later with a piece of sticky baklava in one hand and a glass of sweet prosecco in the other I finally did start to relax and enjoy the unusual night party that was going on around me. It was the first time I had been to such a grand party and little did I know it would not be the last.