The occasion was attended by several of the more esteemed members of our city's literary appreciation society. In random order they included:
Mister Mark Walbank, court magician and former student plasterer; Miss Lisa Condron, the cave specialist; Lord George McAndrew, the award winning architect and friend of small animals; Mister Thomas Quinn, writer, dilettante and wine connoisseur; Ms Carmen Reid, author, entrepreneur and linguist; and Monsieur Martin M. Minton, the legal expert and well known "friend to the crofters".
The evening began most superbly with a tour of the premises. Miss Yelland's spacious, well furnished rooms drew compliments from all who were there. Her "cabinets" were considered to be of the highest order; her "book lined study" was a fine example of early Ikea or possibly late Habitat; and her "tenement bathroom" of the highest quality.
Some surprise was expressed at the sheer scale and grandeur of the feline gym, an elaborate device that was stored for the evening in the dining room. The gym features several nooks, crannies, hammocks and scratch poles, enough for any cat. However, the felines for whom this has been purchased, no doubt at great expense, preferred to spend the evening curled up on the sofa -- only occasionally landing on the laps of the visitors. Each cat was distinctive in its way, and was capable of making a grown man sneeze within a matter of seconds. Fortunately, our hostess was able to bring forth drugs and paraphernalia to counteract the worst of these symptoms.
Sadly apologies were read out by three of the guests who had been expected. Doctor Cathy Norton was at home, feeding M&S pizza to her children and was therefore unable to attend. Also missing were Doctor John Albiston, the noted potholer, and his wife DoctorMairi Albiston. The latter is understood to be "about to drop", which may be the cause of their "crying off" at such a late stage.
The highly qualified dentistry expert Miss Yelland, BDS OMG LOL, it should be noted, excelled in her duties as a hostess. The wine -- from her own, eponymous vineyard -- was of the first rate and she was skilled enough to ensure that Mister Thomas Quinn didn't drink all of it himself, and that some was reserved for the other members of the gathering. There was food served also, a selection of the finest cheeses from France, and biscuits, which were understood to be "Jacob's".
Discussion centred on THE HARE WITH THE AMBER EYES, a biography of sorts, a history if you like, by a curious cove by the name of De Waal. Who makes pots. Stupid thing to do with your life really. But there you are. Pots, pots, pots. And he carries carved miniature tigers in his pockets. All over Europe. Eyeing up stuff his relatives used to own.
As books went it was deemed to be satisfactory in some regards, and less so in others. Mister Walbank suggested he wanted to "make it disappear through a nearby window" while Mr Quinn, who had only read a third of the book, claimed it was "The Greatest Work of Literature Ever Conceived". Most considered this to be an indication that he was "well tanked up" and his wife immediately suggested they go home.
[... "All well and good, but what the bloody hell is the next book going to be?" - ed]
"Early Ikea or possibly late Habitat," ha ha.
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