Friends of friends...

Not me, I hasten to add. Either I just spent the weekend with a random dozen of inveterate party animals, or I’m just not cut out for excess. Or maybe both. I hadn’t met most of the guests before, which was great – sometimes it’s good to have to be on the alert when unknown people descend on you at breakfast, all smiles and good intentions. Of course they were all 90% charming, all being, like me, good friends of birthday Sue and her partner. But I’m often surprised at how disastrous the meeting of friends-of-friends can turn out to be. Anyway, sorry to report (as a writer in search of a narrative) we all got along fine, apart from a rather alarming outburst from a French personage who seemed to have a bee in her bonnet about trespassers in her French village. Anyway, that aside, I liked the random nature of my house encounters – wander into one room, and there are two guys watching Sullivan’s Travels while a third dozes quietly. In the kitchen, a group chopping vegetables and laughing hysterically over a shared memory; by the big hall fire, some women lounging soporifically while someone plays a grand piano and sings quietly. There were fourteen people in all – more than I usually encounter in a week in my village!

Now I’m on the train home to Norwich, watching snowflakes dance past the window among the bare trees bordering the railway line. Tomorrow I’ll work, and worry about money, and walk the dog, and do my piano practice and watch tv. It’ll be somehow enjoyable, returning to quiet quotidian life after four days of over-stimulation. And, Patience – if you read this, thanks for being a great roommate. I enjoyed our nocturnal fits of the giggles!