Orna Mulcahy on people we all know.
Bernie and Pat have been serving the judge's Christmas buffet for so many years that they're completely at home in his kitchen, which is where you will find them halfway through the evening, parked beside the Aga with a cup of tea and a ginger nut, having cling-filmed the remains of the buffet supper so tightly there isn't a hope of second helpings. And more coffee is totally out of the question, unless you want to make it yourself, pet. After all, it's gone 10 p.m. and they can't be expected to go on serving all night, can they?
People are very greedy: no matter what you feed them, they're always looking for more, and the judge might need the leftovers for tomorrow, they say in stage whispers to your retreating back. Guests are often a little peckish after, and even during, one of the judge's buffets. Bernie whizzes through the front room with the canapés early on, making a beeline for the far left-hand corner of the room, where her favourite cluster of well-fed barristers can polish off a tray in no time. Meanwhile, the ladies by the door could faint from the hunger before she'd offer them a bit of smoked salmon or a Thai chicken stick - none of them look as though they need it, and if they're not on diets, they should be, is Bernie's rationale.
Supper is announced, an orderly queue forms, and it looks as though there's lashings to eat. But Pat is a stickler for portion control and there's no question of having chicken and beef dished up with the smallish mound of rice, unless of course you're very big in the Tribunals, or have a particularly complicated private life. Being on the private dining circuit, they know a lot about these things. "Nice to see him with his wife for a change" and "Nice to see her sober", they say, while stacking the dishwasher, before serving the roulades.
Anyone straying back towards the buffet will find there's plenty of green salad still on the go, the bristling kind that's impossible to eat standing up, when trying to have an intelligent conversation, and of course the garlic bread is long gone. So is your plate if you're foolish enough to put it down mid-sentence to make a point, and as for your glass, let that go for a moment and it's whipped away and packed up, here's you hat and what's you hurry style.
Half past ten and Bernie and Pat are off, marching through the front hall where the party is in full swing, holding pots and plates aloft. A round of applause wouldn't go amiss. There is a side door, but why should they slink off unnoticed when they could be escorted to the door by the judge himself, who's a decent man and knows how to tip, though they leave him, year after year, with a fridge full of collapsing desserts and the 500 crackers they forgot to serve with the cheese.