There are always days when socialising is not on the menu. A Twelfth Night party, featuring a lot of people in a lot of very different interpretations of crowns, would usually be my idea of a Great Time. But not tonight. Here's a nice chair in the kitchen. Here's me upon the chair. Here's everyone else in the other room. Except when they come in looking like a Roman Emperor:
There's some mulled cider. In Gloria by Abbie Betinis, which we sang at Christmas, there's a line "Cider burns your tongue," which we altered to whisky, for local relevance. Cider. Burns your tongue? How odd! Apparently not - here we have hot cider with oranges, cloves and cinnamon in. Smells very mulled. Pity i don't like spices...
