We rise to the occasion

Last night’s party went splendidly. Its splendour was greatly augmented by Tony, who not only polished silver, polished the piano (tuned within an inch of its life last week), took down the sitting-room curtains, rearranged the room into its summer guise, an annual ceremony delayed this year by the extreme disobligingness of the weather, cut the box by the front door and ironed the Professor’s shirts, but, bless the man, came back around seven to be a discreet presence in the kitchen washing up, putting away, and tidying, with the result that for once the Professor and I did not have to do it in great haste as quietly as possible after midnight while the musicians drank whisky and played the piano. The weather, which was supposed to be awful, wasn’t, except for a couple of tiny but vehement hailstorms, neither of which lasted more than a minute (and they had the consideration not to happen during the recital, what’s more). The Baritone was in famous form; he gave us a lot of Welsh, which was rather super: that melodious tongue’s richly sounded ‘r’s and ‘l’s got their full money’s worth, and then some. Most of the rugs had been removed so it was a bit like being inside a violin. Supper I had organized quite cunningly so that everything could be picked up; there were knives and forks laid out, but hardly anyone bothered. I’m happy to say that the box of spring flowers made it to Cambridge – and that, despite hail, gales, and the daffodils’ headlong desire to get it over with for the year, there were still enough pheasant’s eye narcissus in the garden to give me flowers for the house last night.