We had it. Droves gathering. Each champagne bottle a Kalashnikov of happiness. The steam of sweat being inhaled as would stallions on the smell-out for mares in heat. Expensive ingredients tossed together in the style of television; cooked to be in the trash with empty potato chips bags. Alternatively, ordering children to sit still and enjoy the quasi one star meal which is keeping them from first person shooting. Maybe. Homeless people getting attention, food and gifts and enjoying at least two thirds of it; one third being their gift back to the givers.
Everybody gives it a personal touch. It is inspiring to see so high a success rate. Yippee. Jay! Mine was ruining it for The Family. Somebody on the internet warned me that not everybody was having fun. Some warnings are self-defeating. Fire came out of my nose. It was so hot that, invisible, it could only not but be felt. It worked. The Kids were somewhat saved, not in the least by Jools Holland (skip to second 48 if you don’t like preliminaries),
but The Wife and I had our own – very personal – version of a sleepless night. It wasn’t too bad because we drank whiskey. Do you want to know whether we’re OK now?