If I could perform scansion on the Aeneid, if I could build a macro in an Excel spreadsheet,
if I could spend the last nine birthdays and Christmases and New Year’s Eves alone,
then I’m sure I could manage to organize a delightful festive lunch for thirty people on a budget of ten pounds per capita.
Saturday morning passed in a blur of household chores. I’d started wearing rubber gloves to protect my hands,
and, although unsightly, they were helping. The ugliness didn’t matterafter all, there was no one to see me.
Gathering up the detritus of the previous evening, I noticed that I had failed to consume all of my vodka allocation;
the best part of a half bottle of Smirnoff was extant. Mindful of my gauche faux pas at Laura’s party,
I put it in a Tesco carrier bag to present to Keith tonight.
I pondered what else I should take for him. Flowers seemed wrong; they’re a love token, after all.
I looked in the fridge, and popped a packet of cheese slices into the bag. All men like cheese.
I arrived five minutes early at the train station nearest to the party venue. Mirabile dictu, Raymond was already there!
He waved at me and I waved back. We set off toward the golf club.
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