A transcript of the balloon-surprise party

As promised, my friend K kindly compiled a list of SMS’s I sent her an hour before Q’s surprise party.

To understand what on earth was going on last Friday evening, here is the situation in brief. As Q, the birthday girl, was getting a lift from K, who was supposed to drop Q off to meet her family for a simple, quiet dinner, THEN zip around to the car park of the same building to meet me and the rest of the conspirators, I dared not call K – just in case Q would overhear our plans in the car.

I knew could still reach K by SMS. But what if Q, being a good friend of K’s, decided to be helpful and read out my text messages – thereby uncovering my secret coordinates?

So I wrote in code. I had already made it to the underground car park, and needed to beam my location to my partner in crime and let her know I was going to start blowing up the balloons:

Destination reached.
Ship has been docked at rear section.
Initiating air transfer.

After my first attempt (which was eventually successful), I realised why I never wanted to blow those friggin’ balloons again. The back of my jaws felt like they were going to burst:

One up. Eleven to go. Reserving the pink and red ones for you.
Cheeks exploding.

Did I omit to say that K loves red and pink? I am just too thoughtful a friend. Anyway. My second attempt on a yellow balloon was more ambitious, resulting in an unfortunate accident which has since adversely affected my complexion. I told myself NEVER to blow too hard again. Since it was rather lonely by myself in the car park, I decided to let out my misery to K once again:

First casualty, yellow regiment.
Exploded without warning.
Recalibrating air pressure transfer.
Face skin in pain.

Where in Singapore was K, anyway? I soon received a status report. K was still waiting for Q, who was late, apparently, but fortunately so were Q’s parents. That meant I’d have to lie low in my secret hideout and continue to inflate balloons. I ignored strange looks from passers-by who had parked their cars next to mine. I blew up a third balloon, which didn’t explode. Unfortunately, my first balloon started to deflate. Guess I really blew it. Feeling irritable, I thumbed another text message to my comrade, wishing she’d get over at once and help me with this most tedious task:

Situation grim
Blue regiment retracted without warning.
Cheeks hurting .
Require backup troops.

I managed a fourth, and called it quits. Well, actually, I called it something else in Anglo-Saxon, but it isn’t suitable weblog material, so there.

Thus ends our surprise party text message transcript. K eventually found me in the car park, blew a couple balloons and together we sneaked in for the surprise. Actually, we were afraid Q would notice her friends through the glass windows, so we covered our heads with the balloons and waltzed our way up to her table!

Addendum: At the party, after relating our underground adventures to the other guests, Q’s dad exclaimed, why didn’t you tell me? I have a helium pump!!