I'm thinking of giving up entertaining. I no longer get the hit. Today, 16 for lunch. Eleven adults at the table. Five children in the kitchen. One of my oldest friends provided chocolate fondue after the cheese. The meal went on and on. We played silly party games. In between, the kids went to the park, returned, joined us for a round of guessing and then played Hide and Seek. The wine flowed so well we had to sent a foraging party to Thresher. Though that was mainly because I keep so little white in stock. It was a fantastic day. And yet, having just finished clearing up, I still haven't had that adrenaline moment. The hit. Indeed, now I think about it, it's happening less and less. On Friday a fabulous lunch in Camberwell. In the spring sunshine we ate al fresco with an eccentric mix of people from 8 to 80. There were a lot of stories around the table. One guest, a young man, had been abandoned as a baby. And rescued by Mother Theresa. It was love at first sight for my girls. Two other children there had recently lost their mother. To cancer. They sat, open, smiling, friendly. A solid team led by a gentle father. The politically active octogenarian in the group was of a dying generation. Those who escaped Nazi Germany. Having enjoyed the fastest seder (Passover meal) in history, earlier in the week, he was a reminder of how precious life is. There were even two single adult men of a certain age. The hostess gets ten out of ten for that one;-) And yet, no hit there either... Is this, I wonder, a sign of middle age?

Last night, politics in microcosm. Private vs state, Jew vs Muslim, old Labour vs new Tory. Ånd only seven people! Inevitably there was discord. Though discord hedged with social nicities. By the end of the evening we'd broken into factions. With me somewhere in the middle. Shovelling down chocolate fridge cake. And Spanish wine. A bad move. This morning I couldn't walk a straight line. Riojas always leave an after-effect. It must be the tannins. Or something. In this zig-zagging state, I was whisked off for bacon butties by my godson. Who, as ever, distinguished himself by having two breakfasts. We discussed the hostages in Iraq and my efforts as a facilitator earlier this week. He laughed out loud when I described how the delegates, who were supposed to provide lively debate, had all agreed with each other. Within five minutes of kick-off. Forcing me to spend the next 55 irritating them into argument. And how the earpiece they'd unexpectedly provided kept flying from my ear like a caffeine fuelled bat. Afterwards we picked up the girls. Who've been with their paternal grandparents this weekend. Coming home, the youngest, apropos nothing, said, "I really miss X, Mummy. I wish you'd never split up." "Me too," said the eldest. "I've been thinking about him all weekend." The spirit of nostalgia is clearly catching. "Why do you think we're suddenly musing like this?" I asked them. The eldest said, "Because it's spring." Ah yes, spring is sprung, the grass is ris, I wonder where the boirdies is?