Soup. And olives.

Wasn’t entirely sure what that bright shiny thing in my eyes was yesterday. Thought about this and vaguely recalled something called sunshine. That could have been it, I suppose.

We ventured out in the car, seeing as we’d received an invitation to some literary soup. With olives. It was surprisingly nice being out there, in the bright whatsit, looking at the distant hills that had a little bit of snow on them.

The Resident IT Consultant insisted on driving us past a gingerbread house. I somehow expected him to leave me there, but he didn’t. It was on a narrow road which was shorter and straighter than the main road to where we were going, but one that ‘would probably take as long, because you have to drive more slowly.’

We arrived too early. It is terribly embarrassing arriving too early. We stood outside for a bit, listening to our hosts hoovering, and seeing Daughter disappear down the road because we were embarrassing. They let us in after a while, and we had soup and olives, served with funny bread, normal bread and something that turned out to be brown bread.

There was cake and cups of tea, once the Resident IT Consultant had been lured out on a walk by our host. There was talk of zombies, but not too much, and the advisability – or not – of walking widdershins round churches and such. And how the local witch wouldn’t give away her trade secrets.

Paying tax.

That kind of thing.

And not only did we arrive too early, but we left too late. Best to make the best of such a bright day.

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