So family turned up from all over the place to celebrate my eldest sister's mumble, mumble birthday. It's not really her birthday, she'll be in Paris on the actual day.
These parties are... exuberant. We don't get together all that often because of distance, but when we do, damn, but we go all out.
I'm lying on the couch, trying to pay attention to the rugby, with an overstuffed belly from too much food and soaked with some rather tasty wine - no thoughts of getting back to fiction tomorrow - I'm feeling nicely pickled.
Winston Churchill made some his most famous speeches following the consumption of significant amounts of brandy - I think it also contributed to his slow, measured tones when delivering the words that boosted a nation.
I'm no Churchill, hell, I have ambitions to be as erudite as Homer. Simpson, that is, not the ancient Greek.
It does, however, make me wonder how many authors out there settle down with a nice glass of red or white and set fingers to keyboard to compose - and whether the result is worth reading.
Churchill proved brilliant; for me - if tasting the fruit of the vine - the hits usually outweigh the misses. That is, the hits of 'wow, that's awful' are more prevalent than the 'wow, that's exciting'.
I need a nap now.