We had another dinner at the Playhouse last night for the remnant population: Mum, Dad, the Marretts and the Fitzhardinges. Haddon made chicken in a mushroom sauce with broccoli and perfect roast potatoes like Mum used to make – that is, parboiled then deep fried, so that the insides were creamy and the outsides were golden crisp.

Conversation was flagging until I realized it was the eleventh anniversary of another Feast of the Epiphany, also known as the Worst Dinner Party I Ever Threw, Oh My God, Now That I Think About It That Story Doesn’t Reflect Well On Me, At All. I made my way through a bottle of Oyster Bay Marlborough sav blanc and tried to tell the sorry tale. I told it very badly, but it encouraged everyone else to tell stories of terrible parties, and then to share memories of great ones, like Sarah’s 21st, at which Dad skipped around the Bluegum Crescent house for hours, filling peoples’ glasses of champagne.

And so just for a little while, last night was one of our great parties, too.

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