To which my mum pipes up, “Spandau Ballet – were they gays?!”
That’s how last night’s dinner conversation unfolded in Paradise Cottage. My poor sister’s-soon-to-be-parents-in-law didn’t know what had hit them as we discussed, variously, the sexual orientation of East End gangsters and 80s pop legends, the genetic predisposition to balding of the assembled males and the forthcoming wedding night of the happy couple.
It was a weird, bullshittty, entertaining one. It has to be said that few our kitchen table chats cut the high grade cerebral mustard. Far from it. It’s just that things are said so earnestly and with such alcohol-aided spirit that we sometimes get carried away. And I love it.