Dis-accordian

Last night I decided to do a shepherds pie seeing as I was having a guest to dinner, a particularly fussy eater at that. A simple English dish should be acceptable. So there we were, dinner on the table, fork poised in mid air for the first tasting when the doorbell rang. Hoping it wasn’t another neighbour complaining about my effervescent puppy, I got up, forgetting my serviette still draped round my neck. I opened the door and immediately this cacophony of accordions and home-made drum started up lead by a vocally challenged ‘singer’. To say I was startled would be an understatement. My confused expression must have been obvious because my companion, still seated at a safe distance, shouted above the din ‘It’s San Antonio’. Wondering whether he meant the noble saint was one of the quartet, I peered at them more closely but could only make out Giovanni and his brother from the gas station down the road. The other two I didn’t recognise but one only had 1 tooth whilst the other had skew eyes and I wasn’t sure who he was addressing when he spoke. My guest elaborated it was an annual celebration of the Saint and it was customary to do a carol singer sort of thing round the village. Thinking they would soon stop, I applauded politely as they drew to a conclusion fumbling in my pocket for some loose change which I held out to them whilst simultaneously starting to close the door. My hopes of an early retreat were premature as they roared into life again, the accordions wheezing and puffing away accompanied by the ever-enthusiastic though ill-named ‘singer’. I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, glancing longingly at the now lukewarm shepherds pie. Seeing this, one of the accordion players glared at me and I swayed enthusiastically to the ‘music’ feigning ‘delight’ at their impromptu show. I wondered whether it would be impolite to go and get my coat given the blast of icy air that was howling in through the open door but then thought they might take it as a signal that I was hoping to be stood there for another hour so I braced myself against the chilly night, false smile plastered on my face. Don’t get me wrong, it was all very quaint but after the first 10 minutes, I was ready to get back to my long anticipated dinner. Finally after 25 minutes and having told them it was too much excitement for one night, I managed to close the door. The shepherds pie, by now, was stone cold, and the occasional lumps in the potato topping, when hot, edible, now seemed uninviting and unforgivable. ‘San Antonio’s!’ I cheered shrugging in resignation.