A red wine aperitif served in a very large glass preceeded the main course of farm fresh asparagus served with cheap champagne followed by a digestif of bottled Peroni beer.
Isabelle retired early, partly on account of weariness with my conversation which in these circumstances can drift towards the sandbank of self-absorption and once there easily become stuck-fast.
Then a few beers later as talk continued with J. and Stuart, I suddenly realised mid-sentence that whatever I was talking about didn't make any sense to me, let alone anyone else. I'd actually reached a point where I'd managed to bore myself silly.
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While you were boring yourself silly, J. and I were falling off our chairs with laughter. This continued well into this afternoon.
I can still smell Asparagus.
As middle-age progresses one has to be extra vigilant that memory lane doesn't turn into a six lane highway.
Come to think of it I can see memory lane becoming like the M25.
I'm often left (internally) questioning "Are we nearly there yet" with the end of this 100th repeat of the same story from members of the older generation.
I've experienced that same moment many times.
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