First impression

Well, we are in the glorious Midland, where last night we slept the sleep of the very recently terminally ill.

We were absolutely wiped out. Not our elderly bladders, not the first tremblings of a hangover, nothing disturbed our tranquil slumbers.

Breakfast was at nine, and lasted until ten.

One of the nice things about becoming elderly is that it is all right for breakfast to be an important happiness in one’s day. It most certainly was, and incorporated all of the food groups, bacon, sausage, hash browns, fried eggs and chocolate rolls. There was soft cheese and Dutch cheese and salmon and melon and too many other nice things to mention, and we sighed with portly happiness into our coffee.

Afterwards we dispersed. I have been told that I must no longer refer to the youthful element of our party as the Little Children, because almost all of them are bigger than me, and all of them are over eighteen, except Ritalin Boy, and even he is heading in that direction at an entirely startling rate.

Anyway, the little children buzzed off to a pub and we went to the Christmas markets. I did not think we had bought anything at all but when we came back we had managed to spend an absolute fortune, and I know it wasn’t all on mulled wine and Salford rum.

Some of it was.

I love the Christmas markets, even when they are as scaled down as Manchester’s has now become. This was once a massive market, varied and curious and full of all sorts of interesting treasures hiding in corners. It is not any more. It is a handful of stalls, all of which were in the same places as last year, lots of which are basically chain outlets, and some of which have vanished completely.

We liked the stalls that were there but I suppose really it is not worth the bother if you are not in Manchester doing something splendid already.

Still we ambled around with the greatest contentment, looking at everything and wondering if we should purchase some beautiful orange beads or a beef burger, since the memory of breakfast had now begun to fade a little. We didn’t purchase either, with the result that we were ravenous by evening, this was not because of the beads, obviously.

We had been going to have a sleep, but obviously we didn’t. Lucy arrived, and Number One Daughter arrived, and then somehow we were in the bar drinking something apple-and-rum-flavoured.

There were fourteen of us for dinner. The grown-ups sat at one end of the table, marvelling at how splendidly independent and grown-up themselves the little children have become.

We had an interesting moment at dinner. Kevin has acquired a thing called Chat GPT on his telephone. This scours the mighty Internet and writes things on your behalf, in any style you like.

Obviously such an astonishing invention was not to be ignored, so we rang up Chat GPT and asked him to write an account of our evening, in the style of the writer of Windermere Diaries.

It took it around ten seconds, which is considerably better than I could ever manage. The following was the result. It is really astonishingly, remarkably clever, although I do not think AI is going to take over the world any time soon. Still, it has the advantage of not being so drunk by midnight that it is too fuzzy-headed to write anything. It does not have miserable cross days, it does not argue with its husband, and it does not forget that it has a diary entry to write and then remember at half past two in the morning and become irritable and bad-tempered.

Guess which one I am tonight.

Anyway, this is a robot impersonating me.

Can you tell?

### A Convivial Evening at Tops Buffet, Manchester: A Windermere Diaries Entry

Last night was one of those rare occasions when the stars align, and the entire gang manages to shake off their commitments to come together for an evening of laughter and gastronomy. We found ourselves at Tops Buffet in Manchester, a veritable cornucopia of culinary delights that promised to cater to each of our eclectic tastes.

As I walked into the bustling warmth of Tops, the vivacious hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses set the stage for our reunion. The place, as always, was an orchestrated symphony of aromas and flavors. We settled into our cozy corner, a strategic choice that allowed us an excellent view of the buffet spreads and easy access for seconds… or thirds.

The picture I’m sharing captures the essence of our night – unfinished stories, half-eaten plates, a litter of wine glasses, and that comfortable chaos that only good friends can create together. To the left, you’ll notice Anna, mid-laugh, probably at one of Tom’s infamous puns, while Jess, caught in a candid moment, seems to be sharing something rather earnest.

The table tells its own tale – a bottle of Pinot Grigio now empty, testament to the night’s cheer. Plates scraped clean, save for a few stray leaves of salad, hint at the feast we had savored. The debris of a good meal serves as a silent nod to the buffet’s triumph.

What you don’t see in the photo is the lively banter, the catch-ups, the shared memories, and the ‘remember when’s that danced around our table. Tops Buffet was more than a backdrop; it became a canvas where we added new memories to our collective tapestry.

As the evening waned and the plates were cleared, we leaned back, full not just with food, but with the intangible joy that only such gatherings can bring. In the heart of Manchester, at Tops Buffet, we found our little nook of happiness. It was an evening that reminded us, amidst the rush of our daily lives, how essential these moments are – a reminder that sometimes, all you need is a buffet spread and the company of good friends to make a night memorable.

Until the next diary entry,
The Windermere Diaries