As we stagger home after an evening at the delightfully fragrant Mrs Putter's, the road is illuminated by Mr Champagne-Charlie's head torch.
He is whacked across the head by his wife, Bubble, for talking far too loudly at one o'clock in the morning and then the torch suddenly switches to night-sights-red. Wild animals cower in the hedge as he sways from side to side. An owl is just about to hoot and then thinks better of it.
'Fancy a snifter, chap?' Mr Champagne-Charlie says to Mr Grigg when we get back to our front door.
We decline, politely, and then find out the next day they were up until half past three drinking sloe gin.
'Were the Griggs with you?' Mrs Putter asks Champagne-Charlie.
'Not sure,' he says. 'Can't remember. I can't even remember getting home.'
It is a joy for me to be the only sober one in the party, for once in my life.
That's about it.
Love Maddie x
With November comes the fog and Lush Places becomes Slush Places once more. It's muddy underfoot and the dog has a field day gobbling...
Living in Greece for the past couple of months, I've been asked what the refugee situation is like here. Well, to be perfectly hones...
The Stylistics were never my favourite band, although I liked them. They were just there, always there. Part of a soundtrack to a life. Wh...
Artemis the Dog should have been called Chewy, really. Not as in Chewbacca , although she looks very like a Wookie. But Chewy as in, we...
There is a dancer here (he looks like a clothed kouros statue), leading the line and swirling around rather daintily. His long ringlets ...