But, by careful observation from the sidelines, I’d worked out that social success is often built on pretending just a little.
Popular people sometimes have to laugh at things they don’t find very funny, do things they don’t particularly want to,
with people whose company they don’t particularly enjoy. Not me.
I had decided, years ago, that if the choice was between that or flying solo, then I’d fly solo. It was safer that way.
Grief is the price we pay for love, so they say. The price is far too high.
The buffet had been laid out—yes, there were sausage rolls, but also sandwiches.
Staff were dispensing indistinguishable tea and coffee from bitter-smelling urns into industrial white crockery.
This wouldn’t do at all. I was decidedly not in the mood for hot brown liquid, oh no.
I was in the mood for cool, clear vodka. All hotels had bars, didn’t they?
I wasn’t a great frequenter of hostelries, but I knew that bedrooms and bars were their raison d’être.
I spoke to the dentally challenged lady in reception again, who directed me down another long corridor,
at the end of which lay the imaginatively named Hawthorn Lounge.
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