A great big house full of empty

[desperance]

The worst thing about house-guests? Is that they flatter to deceive. They come, they talk, they eat, they drink, they come for walks, they talk, they go to bed, they get up, they talk, they come for walks, they eat, they drink - and then they go away. And then they come back for what they forgot, of course, but then they go away again. Too soon, before we're half done talking. I can only go at twelve words an hour in any case, it takes me days to say anything that matters; they'll be halfway to Oregon before I've worked out what I really want to tell them.

Sent 'em off with a proper English breakfast, though. Bacon and sausage and mushroom and poached eggs and two kinds of toast and butter and marmalade and apricot preserves and coffee and grapefruit juice and clementines. If you can't articulate, examine: I gave them a stern examination, and they ate with flying colours.

And they really have gone now, and I? Don't know what to do with myself. The boys are napping in unusual places, which is a fine example to uphold except that I, y'know, don't nap. Am not a napper.

One more cup of coffee, maybe. A clementine. A book. Then maybe I'll remember that this is not a holiday. But it felt like a holiday; I had friends.