On Sunday, before Susan and Rob left, we all went to a party in a nearby hamlet (not big enough to be a small town). Expatriate Brits, lots of art and artists, two dogs and only one child.
We had expected (dreaded) something possibly pretty deadly – this party was given by friends of Chris, and we Americans didn't know any of them – but it was remarkably pleasant, civilized without being even slightly pompous. A beautiful small house, comfortable living room and good food; and a lovely look out onto the garden, and the winter Spanish sun over hills and fields. The dogs were large and amiable, rather than small and irritable (have I gone on too much about irritable small dogs so far? Yes, I have); and the little girl was industriously engaged in passing out Pringles (the main concession to cheap American snack foods) and managing all activity below about three feet high (including the dogs) with an iron hand. She'll make a good company manager some day, I'll bet.
Although I would normally be thrown by the fact that several of them had hyphenated names complete with titles – House of Lords, anyone? – people were intelligent, conversation was excellent. Oddly, Rob and I seemed nearly the youngest ones there (except of course for the little girl, and the dogs I suppose). A tall, gentle-looking man with white hair was walking with a cane; when I helped him to a chair he mentioned he'd had a stroke – so I proceeded to tell him I'd had one too this year, and we traded war stories for a while. Rob told me that later he'd asked someone, do you know that boy?... pointing at me. Boy! And me 53 at my last birthday, this month.
Yes, I did some inevitable preening at that... but of course Barcelona, and Sitges and environs, encourage a certain peacockiness. Why does this forest-green casual shirt with the rolled collar make me look so much more stylish than anything I can buy in Newcastle?
I clearly don't need to answer the question: what I need to do is go in to Barcelona again this afternoon and buy more things that look daring but handsome. Because they were always wrong, weren't they? – clothes do indeed make the man....
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