Argentees and sparklers

A bread-maker, a zippy remote-control K9, lots of fine booze (including – hurrah! – some Bolly), a chair-to-come, a Dalek cake with genuine pyrotechnics, some Flaming Lips, a robot, a screen, a Minimum Elephant, 19 lovely, lovely books and a right old sod of a hangover…

Yeah, a rather splendid haul this year and the Dr surpassed herself with the party. As did my second wife, who should drink pink fizz more often.

Had a splendid time with lots of splendid friends, though the last hour or so is a tad blurry. Probably for the best, as some former colleagues of the Dr were discovering that it is unwise to call the bluff of a drunk.

M. says it’s a different experience watching Droo while standing up, and I loved Rose having to watch out for the Doctor’s eating jam and being weird at people. Is she also responsible for his knowing Eastenders and Kylie and the shenanigans at Club Med?

Others seemed less impressed, finding it all too girlie about the love and/or too boysie being nice about sport. I can all too believe that the tribal excitement of a big sporting event could generate sufficient power. Have fond memories of Burnley vs. Sheffield United in November 2000, and the contagious thrill surging round the stadium as the home team realised they’d won…

Hadn’t seen some people in ages and folk had come from far and wide; Bristol, Macclesfield, Brighton, Margate… Liadnan looked bronzed and handsome like he’d just wandered in from the Aegean. He’d bought me the Fromkin book he spoke about here which the Dr was a bit miffed about: she’s the one who reads the serious, clever stuff. I might let her have a lend, and will report back here on all the other reading. But I am a bit slow, so be patient.

Bernice Summerfield herself bought me “Archaeology is Rubbish” which I’m already 70 pages through. Know my spoil heaps from my robber trenches, and all sorts of other top facts which will generally improve my dating. The book is fun and engaging, using the second-person to draw the reader in, but it does rather assume you have a garden.

Apparently got to bed about three-ish. Remember it getting to one. Remember making R. laugh without meaning to, and being cunningly stood by the lashings of wine…

H. and J. couldn’t make it ‘cos they were watching posh singing but turned up yesterday for a picnic. Had not been very brilliant up to that point, but a walk, some champagne and some ice cream brought me round. We admired the monsters and then ambled home.

Caught the end of the football – and felt better for seeing Beckham spitting out a tiger. The play wasn’t brilliant and I’m more annoyed by the wobbles there than in the previous night’s Droo. Feel someone needs to take them aside and politely chide, “Now do come along, Ingerlund.”

Listened to Cantus, finally, and watched telly about museums, then French spirals, then spitting image. And at last sleep…

Fab weekend then, but I wouldn’t wanted to be 30 all the time.