You get to a point when the parties you go to just aren’t as hot as they used to be. Literally, I mean. Parties are still, on occasion, fairly badly behaved, but they are very rarely sweaty. I suspect the wooden floorboards we spent most of our 30s stripping and painting and fussing over lose heat something rotten compared with those nice mouldy, fuzzy carpets we had in the rented accommodation of old. Also, the days of every guest turning up with 10 randoms tagging along are over, and you start losing good people to the dreaded babysitter problem. There is less dancing on tables, and more sitting down at them and eating.
What’s not to love? Nice food and somewhere to sit down, and actual ice and lemon in your gin and tonic. It’s all good, and I’m all for it; I just need to adjust my wardrobe.
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