Windsor is a sunny autumn afternoon of holidayness. Perhaps the last good weekend of the year. We meet at Clapham Junction and get the train to the Best Man’s new house. Out of London, it is quieter, it feels like a day trip to somewhere altogether different, though it only takes half an hour. I am ill, struck down with the usual October cold, but my super-strength pills and woolly hat keep me happy.
We stop at a pub by the river and wile away an afternoon drinking with friends and catching up. It is nice to have people who remember things for me. It is nice to have friends who remember a time when the Husband ate at Chicken Cottage every night – before he became an unbearable foodie.
Back at the Best Man’s new home, we are treated to a medley of curries. He’s a great cook, and a fantastic host, quietly orchestrating everything so that his guests don’t see just how difficult it must be to cook for 12 people in a tiny kitchen.
Conversations range from politics to weddings, stories of a recent French trip and arguments about manuscripts and nineties music.
Everyone is on fantastic form and the wine and beer flow freely.
The argument that the Husband is having with Transport for London, about whether it actually will reduce traffic at Bank station if you turn the escalator off and make people walk down it, continues.
A water experiment attempts to solve the problem once and for all. The Australian and the Husband – in agreement for once – are not impressed with the rest of them.
We all get the late train home. Some of us a little worse for wear, all of us happy and glad for a good day out of London.