Monday, 5 February 2018

The difference...

between sharing food with real friends and a dreaded drinks party.
In my world being in the company of friends, enjoying a meal, no matter how humble is one of the joys of life.
My bete noir is getting tarted up to go to a drinks party.  You stand around, glass of wine in hand accepting canap├ęs which you then can’t comfortably eat. You chat about the weather, all the while concious of not spraying your chosen victim with crumbs.
Their eyes stray over your shoulder looking for a more interesting, more pleasing on the eye victim to impart their views on the customs union, twitching, the state of little Willy’s potty training and other exciting tit-bits.  You by this time idly wonder why you ever agreed to accept the invitation?
Your feet hurt, the ole bod isn’t used to being squeezed into tights.  Or if you felt the 
occasion demanded it...stockings!
Where I ought to say your thighs at every turn try to make an escape from the no mans land between stocking top and knicker bottom.  I digress!
Afterwards you stagger away having had too much wine and not enough food to soften the effects, vowing never to return
Now, a handful of friends, who you care about, sitting around talking  drinking and eating is in my opinion a much better way.  All get chance to be in the hot seat of being ribbed about things theyhave said or done.  Everyone gets a chance to expound their views on  say, running as opposed to couch-potato-ism.  Which is my particular form of exercise.

This is what happened yesterday when some much loved friends came 
to lunch who are on the cusp of moving to France.  Alright I am aware we live looking out on the channel, however they are going miles down, nearly flaming 
Spain far!

I am writing this as I watch the snow coming in from the sea!

A bitter sweet occasion waving them off.  Next time we see you it will be in warm climes...

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