Jane’s eightieth birthday, celebrated with a dinner at Cambanella’s, with Jane, Bill and ten of their friends. Take the bus out and very nearly miss the spot, between some hotels and restaurants not lit up and the bus windows better at showing reflections of the lighted interior than of the world outside. Ring late enough that the driver carries on to the next stop. He’s quite voluble but sounds cheery rather than apologetic as we get off. J tells me this is because he’s not talking to us - just (illegally) chatting on his phone.
Very cheerful gathering, probably stretching the capacity of the kitchen as we order from the reasonably extensive menu. All cooking done, as on Sundays, by the good lady of the establishment, with some struggle evident in getting the dishes to the table roughly simultaneously. A happy lot. Some guessing and joking about age, with Hazel, ever a brinkswoman, saying that Keith doesn’t look 82 (which he doesn’t) and that Bob, her husband, could easily be taken for ten years older than Keith rather than his actual ten years younger. Bob unfazed as always. Jane, positively glowing.
Harry and Ailsa kindly drive us home and have a large bag of oranges and lemons for us.
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