Recovery position

I'm posting this on the 9th, and hoping that no-one thinks that last night out in Castres did for me. Though it so nearly could have done! A great night, marred only by the morning after.

We went to a local restaurant and had a fine meal, followed (after we'd seemingly cleared the place of all other diners) by a long chat with the owner and her daughter over a few bottles of champagne (well it was T's birthday by then) during which much was discussed, including the restaurant business, the differences between the north and south of France, and much else besides that now escapes me. I managed to make a bet with T, which I now realise was foolish even though I can't remember what I bet with - I know his side of the deal was too easy. I also managed to sign up Mr B as the restaurant pianist... Let's hope the owner has the sense to realise that she shouldn't take that too seriously.

Back at the house, our hostess decided that discretion was the better part of valour and retired graciously (some would say 'snuck off') to bed. We hung around for several further hours getting increasingly tired and emotional, culminating in T making me emotional enough to cry during a long involved discussion on my desire to dance on a certain former PM's grave.

Quite a night, and followed by an appropriately blurry morning (though going to bed at something beginning with 5 already feels like you've used up more of the morning than is right and proper). We eventually managed to get out of the door and on our way home after lunch. An afternoon and evening of lying around followed, before a restorative curry and ginger beer. It reminded me of Mosque lunches gone by. But with a worse headache.