First, a quick thank you to the late Dave Brubeck, for the joy of all that music for head, heart and feet.
Last weekend, I agreed to go to yet another deifheid affair. This one had fawning catering staff bring the finger food and champagne to you, so there was no need to tear yourself away from the endless conversation. Oh joy!
I only consented to go because it was promoted as pre-Christmas drinks, just 2 hours out of my life. But in my particular corner of New South Caledonia, all deals become void as soon as you walk in to a party, and I was trapped yet again in an endless hopeless tunnel of waste of time. And I was driving, so I didn't even have the alcohol option.
After the first hour of listening to the usual random snippets of self-promotion, I went to talk to the cat, before settling down on the front doorstep with a good e-book and a cloud of mosquitoes. Like a good chauffeur, I waited patiently for my fare.
Three months ago I left a deifheid dinner party right after the meal, offering the genuine excuse that I had to go home and lay concrete. Our host from that time took offence, and snubbed me on Saturday. So I guess I'll have to resign myself to being off their guest list. I'll try and make the best of it.