I am all partied out.
I am as drained as an empty beer can in the park after a crowd of clandestine teenage rebels have been dispersed by the local policeman.
I am utterly and completely festived to the outside limit.
I have just had to read last night’s entry to find out what I told you, and to my fascination I did not remember writing a word of it, which is a bit rubbish of me really. It is one of the most regrettable things about a real diary rather than a made up story one, when really brilliantly fun and interesting things happen to me I am in no fit state to tell anybody about them afterwards.
It was, of course, brilliantly fun.
I wore my new soft fluffy hat from York Christmas market, which somebody observed was fluffy enough to have been plucked from an angel’s armpit. This amused me very much, which is why I have repeated it here.
We go to the same Chinese restaurant every year. It is a help yourself sort of buffet, which suits us nicely because we have got to squeeze it in before the theatre, and it is quick without needing to wait for things to be cooked. It makes things easy for the children, who can just eat prawn crackers and chips if they want to, and also we like the man whose restaurant it is very much. He looks to be about fifteen but actually he has got children older than Lucy, and every year we catch up on each other’s comings and goings and feel happy to be reunited.
Poor Lucy was not very well this year. She had been suffering from Ritalin Boy’s dreadful sick bug and after making a jolly decent attempt at Chinese food and socialising, she had to give up and go back to bed. Everybody else went to the theatre and of course it was splendid, enough glitter to satisfy even my gypsy decorative tastes, loud singing and bellowing at the stage whenever they needed to know that something was behind them.
Afterwards we gathered in the lounge at the hotel. I am not sure that this isn’t my favourite bit really, although I have got so many favourite bits that it is hard to be sure. I love it because it is a room full of people whom I like very much, and even if I am not talking to any of them I can sit and watch them all enjoying one another’s company. There is nothing better than being among lots of tired, happy people who have just done something exciting together.
We reassembled this morning at breakfast. Some of the more energetic had leapt out of their beds early to go and swim, you won’t be surprised to hear that Mark and I were not among them: and the children would not get up for breakfast at all, and might easily have remained in their beds all day had we not been checking out.
It wasn’t at all sad to go.
We piled our things in the car and hugged everybody and drove away feeling full up of good times and warmth, and so tired we could hardly talk to one another.
We went home and did not unpack. We lit the fire and went to bed, where we slept absolutely soundly for three hours. We unpacked after that.
We had a small dinner of Christmas market garlic sausage and pesto cheese with crackers but without the customary glass of red wine.
Mark is tidying up as I write, and then we are going to go to bed. It is half past seven. It is one of the unexpected things about becoming an old person, that adventures have got to be slept off for an unreasonably long time.
I feel very happy, quiet and still inside. This party is an enormous part of our Christmas, Christmas Day itself will be a quiet little event, just as lovely, but quite different.
My head is still ringing, bursting with images of the beautiful hotel, of the high-ceilinged, marble lobby, of the pillars and the great Christmas tree decked in red and gold. Our friends were there, laughing and playing, smiling at one another and trailing in a disorderly line across Manchester. There were the Christmas markets, stalls piled high with painted nutcrackers or fragrant soap or lovely spiced wine. There was the pantomime, and the food, and the savoury sausages at breakfast. There were hot steamy showers to wake us up, and exhausted nights collapsing onto crisp fresh sheets.
I am wrung out.
It is lovely to be home.
