Cheering things up slightly after yesterday's gloom and doom offering, Thursday night was spent at the Quiz Night which Miss R, the Mother, Mrs Jangles and I frequent once a month, in the vain hope that our superior brains will get an airing.
Who am I kidding? By the time a bottle of red has been drunk by the older pair of sisters, and four bags of Mini Cheddars eaten by the younger pair, it's enough that we know which round we're on and which way up to hold the pencil, let alone know a ten letter European capital city beginning with B. Before you all start writing in, we eventually guessed it was Bratislava, purely by guessing the missing letters (ten questions, with the first letter of each answer forming Bratislava). At one point, all of us were discussing where Beatetralk was, but sanity prevailed and we eventually got it.
It was a new Quiz Mistress on Thursday, and boy did she take her job seriously. None of us had ever experienced her way of marking our answers, so we were unprepared for the amount of information she was expecting within the six seconds between questions. Here's an example.....
Waterloo, Cookham, Putney, Queen Elizabeth II?
Our answer? Bridges.... for which we received a Eurovision null points. (say it in French, it sounds better)
Her answer? They are all bridges which cross the River Thames. This scored 1 measly point.
She was brutal with her marking, and started sounding more and more like a German interrogator as the night wore on. I think the power went to her head somewhat. When another team asked her a fairly innocuous question, I half expected her to turn to them and say menacingly, 'Ve vill ask ze qvestions'. whilst slowly slapping her baton against her wide fitting shoes and support tights.
Well we normally manage what I like to call a 'podium place', ie 1st, 2nd or 3rd, and have on occasions won money and a box of out of date Easter nest cakes. Thursday night however, we scraped though in 8th place....out of 9 teams. Oh the shame...
By Round 6, knowing that we had fallen by the wayside, we resorted to childish nonsense as is normal when we all get together. After a question about cannibalistic plane crash survivors, Miss R asked, 'Where are the Andes?' Well this drew a synchronized chorus from the rest of us of 'At the end of your wristies!' Miss R, not to be deterred suggested that the answer might be the Pyrenees.
Mrs Jangles said, 'Well you know where they are, don't you?' This was the cue for a second chorus of 'Hanging out of a Pyreshorts!' Miss R was not amused, but by then, we'd given up the will to live anyway, and had started going through the discarded Mini Cheddar bags in the hope that a straggler might be found.
So eventually, the quiz came to an end and the scores were called out in descending order. The usual team won, and sat in smug satisfaction, smiling gracefully at all the thickos around them.
How we clapped.
We find it drowns out the gnashing of teeth quite well...