Just arrived at a village hall, charity dinner so dreadfully unsophisticated that I sink into my hard, plastic, school chair, survey the sea of grey helmet hair, crimplene trousers, untrimmed eyebrows and anoraks seated under the harsh lighting and the thought surges in. Oh! come back South East of England… all is forgiven. This is the most appalling way to spend a Saturday night anyone could possibly imagine. I understand all for a good cause but…well. .. couldn’t we have just given them the money? The most gruesome part is the realisation that at my age, years of similarly dull events stretch ahead of me. Raffle ticket hell, amateur dramatics and endless bonhomie. It is the being held captive for 3 and a half hours I object to. My parents didn’t seem to mind it but then
there was no Netflix in those days.
The River Files 