Mr Grigg and I emerge from our front door into the Square.
Next door and across the road, other people are doing the same, like a mass version of one of those weather predictors where the little old man with the umbrella goes in and the little old lady with the parasol comes out.
We are on our way on foot to Lady Friend's house, The Willows, where the blogroll guest list includes Nobby Odd-Job, Ted Moult and Jamie Lee, Tuppence (dear, sweet Tuppence), and an unaccompanied Mr Loggins, whose wife, Darling, is on the London march protesting against the cuts.
'Good for her,' I say, when the arch-Tory Mr Grigg complains.
We amble up the road with the lovely Mrs Bancroft, Night Nurse and Mrs Champagne-Charlie, with her husband bringing up the rear because he has a bad case of wind.
We are treated to a sumptuous help-yourself meal in equally sumptuous surroundings. We could be in an advert for Interiors magazine.
The first surprise of the evening is the rare sight of Mr St John, whose legs are back on show in shorts now that spring is finally here.
The second surprise of the evening is when a well behaved collie puts her nose up my mini skirt as I am in full flow talking to Jamie Lee about the gentrification of My Kind of Town.
The third surprise of the evening is when Champage-Charlie, looking for a place to rest his weary frame, backs up to the gas stove and sets off a click, click, clicking noise.
'Don't touch that dial!' I yell, when I realise he has just switched on the gas with his behind.
'That was lucky,' Mr Grigg say, as Champagne-Charlie springs away from the cooker like a cornered gazelle.
'If he'd broken wind again we could have all gone out with a bang.'
That's about it.
Love Maddie x
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That's about it. Love Maddie x