Wearing five layers of ill fitting clothes, swilling the last mouthful
to be of the Jura in a blue star spangled paper cup, I listened. The
fire danced over wood and the faces of my companions mutated in and
out of focus in the half light. Such warmth. Heated toes, old boots nearly touching the fire, and
angora stripes encircling my fingers. Good friends either side. Whisky
trickling down, radiating through my chest. A few hummed phrases of the old best hymns. A whole circle of people talking about receding hair lines. Then the drumming of rain on nylon, or something of that ilk. I slept
fitfully. Thankful for the warmth of my husband.