This week my editor has abandoned me. Happily, I evade the screen. Though I am certain the next round of microscopically-adjusted galleys will soon plonk into my lap.
In the meantime it is time to party. Though I weary very quickly of people and crowds I do like occasional insanity and my character profile seems grounded upon this. Every July people look forward to the big summer bash I have here, without realising I use it to cover my social obligations for the year - seeing people I haven't sought out for an age, having a dance, having a moment of craziness without needing to catch a plane or drive all the way home witless. I see it also as a great opportunity to clean, exploit my sons and get the garden in order.
Now I have written my last lists. The portico has been repainted, the lights tested. The yard will be mowed today. I am about to shop and stuff the fridges. My towering plastic violet heels have been primed. I am almost in freefall towards the big event.
In past years I have danced in a fury, fondled men, drank way too much, woken to find bodies sleeping peacefully on the grass. In tents, on hammocks. A communal snoring. Then the next day in the sun begins and we sit slowly and without speaking under the trees thinking This is it, This was our party.