Last night my sweetheart and I were guests at a party. A friend turned 50. She is Italian, a teacher, loves theater and the stage, has two teenage kids and is presently divorcing her husband. A rather lengthy and unpleasant affair, dragging on for years now. We first met her maybe two years ago, when she first started dating one of my sweetheart’s friends. The two are an item ever since and she is a lovely woman. The crowd yesterday was fun. As the host lives in a suburb south of Berlin, there were some locals, I take it mostly colleagues from her school. Also a couple of Italian women, her two sisters and some friends who had travelled to Berlin for the occasion. Then there was us, called the “Berliners”, basically the bridge gang. And some young folk, her kids and their friends. There was lots of singing and acting going on. Good fun to watch. Especially the teenagers, as they tried to get some fun out of “old” people’s music and entertainment. Mocking us with brakedance moves while staying seated. Seems, nowadays it is as uncool as ever to join in with your parents. Anyways, we enjoyed ourselves and as the evening progressed, my sweetheart talked me into dancing. This is seldom crowned with success, but last night I was in a good mood, so what the heck. Instead of being grateful for this rare display of goodwill from my part, what does Mr. Charming do? Asks me “Wanna kow what really turns me on?”, all the while kind of pulling me toward the side of the dancefloor where the sorry-looking leftovers of the buffet are still on display, he reaches for something off it and beams at me, chewing “a roast with a good crust.” Aha. Good to know.

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