lifting haze

It turns out a dinner party of two can still be a party - provided champagne, wine and port are consumed as well as a smattering of oloroso and a healthy dash of talking utter gibberish. Exes phoned as drunk as we were and added to the general nonsense.

Once again the problems of the world and heart were solved but once again we remembered none of the solutions in the morning.

If only all hangovers could be so good.

The sun followed us north across the bridge while Jonathon Ross provided the chuckles. Two speed camera close calls and we were once again in North Fife, where the haar consumed us, a silver filter on the sunlight. Bacon butties for brunch coupled with strong coffee and the curious question as to where everyone had gone. To the front steps we went, rehydrating and shaking the cobwebs out. Snippets from the night before; the chat, the wines, the food, the questions raised drifted through the conversation. Our heads cleared with the haar and in the bright autumn sun we brought apples for the horses. We contemplated kidapping Chester, the wee fat mini Shetland, but thought better of it.

Back at Naughton the coffee machine bubbled, and a glance in Polo Times revealed one of my photos, leading to a juvenile swelling of chest and pride. Kirsty rocked up and we had a cocktail and a glass of champagne. I got home late. The cats were hungry and grumpy. Ah well.

There's beach polo and a wine tasting tomorrow: not a bad weekend really. Though I really ought to write something.