One of the nicest aspects of having our (very) old Irish friends to stay is that a proper breakfast is required.
None of your cardboard muesli and yogurt muck - its black pudding, eggs, bacon, sausages,tomatoes and kidneys. And a loaf or two.
The main reason is they hardly eat anything during the day, until tea-time, when cakes are required with the several pots of tea.
To celebrate their being here, Mrs L had arranged a dinner party for tonight. She assured me we would be 9. For some reason, almost certainly allied to my inherited Gypsy gene from old Queen Lear, I had a sneaky suspicion we had asked another couple.
And so it has proved. An email winged its way in asking if the Cocktail Warrior was still expected.
Fortunately, I had been working on the assumption that someone else would turn up, and so it has proved.
On past form, although I don't drink in this country, I shall be hung-over tomorrow. The reason, of course, is the adrenalin racing round as the banter goes back and forth as my soon-to-be-ossified brain tries to keep up.
The dog is already exhausted with the strain of the arrangements....