Breakfast feels very different than dinner. Especially since last night was, well there’s no other way to say it, a bit over the top, or was that under the weather. Marco’s parties are always the best. The girls he finds are ou-la-la. The barbecue so tender and the burgundy!
The port moved with us into the card room and the old whiskey buoyed me up when I lost. But I am never so good at cards. My aces always come up threes and my numbering system is generally off. What little money I’d brought I lost early on which left me all the more time for Teresa and her sisters whose names I fear do elude me. They had smuggled in two bottles of fabulous gin and bodies, I swear, that should be on display at the Louvre.
Marco sent me home with a driver even more gone to rubber than I was. We lost our way too often to count, which I couldn’t by then, but finally we got here and fumbled our way up the stairs. He’s still sleeping on the front hall floor.
The maid is not a bit pleased with me or my guest. She’s slamming around every little thing she does. So thunder crashes over and under in my suddenly minuscule breakfasting room. The food is sliiii . . . ding off the table. I swear it is. Or it should be. Tastes like she stuck it to the plate with double-quick glue.
I swear I’ll never drink another drop. Oops, I missed my chair again. The pears look strangely, vaguely orange or purplish-blue and the eggs . . . what a torture but I can still remember that last night’s dinner was a stately affair and felt decidedly different than this.