Not being entirely good

We went to a party on Sunday. It was a very large party. There was champagne by the bucket, pink pompoms, a white marquee, and many, many people in jolly summer clothes. It was off and on, a nice day. We made conversation (‘how beautifully blue the sky the glass is rising very high Continue fine I hope it may And yet it rained but yesterday Tomorrow it may pour again I hear the country wants some rain … ‘). Then there was the conversation about Not Being Able to Sell One’s House (putting it on at 150% of what it’s worth might have something to do with it, chum, one thought privately, while gratefully accepting another drink from an ambient colleen with an expensive bottle). Then … oh, you know. What a nice time we’re all having and doesn’t so and so look well. An hour and a half passed. There was no sign of anyone moving towards the long tables set out for lunch. Everyone, in the way of parties, was talking louder and louder (at least half of those present were older than us, and many  of them a little deaf). The Brownian motion of party circulation brought us together, and not too far away from the open door of the marquee. We looked at each other. Discreetly, we put our glasses down on a nearby table, and drifted out to look at the flowers. The Professor put his mobile to his ear, and drifted a bit further, with the air of one looking for a signal. Twenty yards, and we were out of the sightline of the marquee, round the corner of the house, and ungratefully shanking it up the drive. Very bad of us, really, but I’m sure we weren’t missed.