I am sorry to confess that I have gone and done it again.
This is going to be a short entry.
I am stupidly, happily, dizzily intoxicated and unfit to be in charge of a diary.
We had a night off, and because Wednesday night is a splendid night for all taxi drivers to have a holiday, we went for dinner with some other taxi drivers who live across the alley from us. They have a tiny, tiny flat on the top floor above the shops, with stunning views of rooftops and treetops and of the village, and we gazed out of their windows in fascinated rapture.
We have had the nicest, most brilliant night.
We went over there for seven o’ clock, and I helpfully remarked on the loveliness of their wine glasses and asked our hosts if they had stolen them from the wine bar opposite their flat.
It was a joke, after which I discovered that really they had stolen them from the other wine bar, underneath their flat, from which they had also borrowed the matching plates and side plates.
It could not have been lovelier. I laughed until my sides hurt. I want to say this here, there is far, far more fun to be had from mismatched side plates and stolen glasses than from the smartest set of co-ordinated Royal Doulton.
There was not enough room at the table for all of us so Twiglet sat on the sofa to eat dinner.
They had made so much effort with dinner that my heart bled with gratitude. It was gorgeous, a spicy starter, then a chicken in mushroom sauce, then a splendid selection of Booths finest cheese, and we would not have eaten better if we had gone to the Old England Gourmet Dining Room for a hundred pounds a head.
We might not have laughed so loudly either.
There is no happiness to be had greater than good food and wine and friends, really there isn’t, especially if you have got to save your forks between the starter and the main course because there aren’t enough. Honestly, it was so warm and homely and comfortable I couldn’t have enjoyed myself more.
It was very handy that they only live a few yards away, because by the end of the evening I was so drunk I could barely walk. We have come home for a shower and to go to bed, in between which activities I remembered in a panic that I had not written to you.
I am going to have a hangover in the morning.
Wouldn’t you think I would know better by now?
Mark took the picture at the farm this morning. We might have been excessively hopeful when we predicted the spring on its way.
