Sometimes, life becomes something that’s more intriguing - more beautiful - to watch than to participate in. Last weekend we went to a party; drove down and west across the country to turn up in a walled orchard strung with lights, a hog suspended over flames in the corner. I had not been here before, but I’d heard about it. People who lived in the village I grew up in had moved there, more than a decade earlier, and it had taken a while but we had come to visit. When we turned up I bumped into men who had been the boys I’d grown up with; ersatz brothers whose dogs and breakfasts and daft jokes had been baked into part of my childhood. It had been a long time.
Later, once the stars had come out, M and I sat on a bench tucked against a wall and watched the marquee fill up. Its flashing lights glowed against the dark. We watched different generations come together and drift apart, saw a man strip off and throw himself into the swimming pool next to the dance floor and live out a music video fantasy in his head. We heard the beats of music and watched how different bodies moved to them. We both agreed it could have belonged on the stage at Sadler’s Wells, and then we joined in, because the host put two firm, maternal hands on my waist and pushed me towards the throng.
Other things I’d like to push you towards this week: