The moon turned to blood, and then we sat down to dine. No savoury, sinewy hare stewed in port and cinnamon. No starchy goodness, no citrus-and-currant mess soaked in the perinephritic fat of swine who fortuitously looked the other way at the very last moment.
No. It was pie for us. Pie pie. The rancid steaming flesh of dung-eating prairie magpie in a pastry crust of the most exquisite delicacy and flakiness. The contrast very nearly made me faint.
Then the dancing. The antic postures by La Ghoone. The striking athletic poses by Master B. Followed by Delicate's sombre morality play on the desperate lunacy of the Contemporary Arts Scene.
We went to bed well after the light broke, late on the first day of the Sun's return.
I've only just got up. HA!
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