Well, I am too tired to contemplate the Single Life, except that in Single Life you don't have a husband to come home at 4:45 in the morning, burbling with joy and brandy, "It wasn't my fault! I didn't have a watch! My phone was in my sporran!"
My guests left at 11 PM. They came in a bunch, and they left in a bunch, and we drank decorous amounts of wine and we remembered that it was a Friday, unlike the manly pheasant-munchers down the road.
After my decorous ladies left, I washed the dishes and tried not to imagine that the weird knocking and creaking noises below were ghosts. There are officially no ghosts in the Historical House, and the fact that I found the frame ripped from the icon of Our Lady of Częstochowa in the dining-room surely has a boring, natural and materialist explanation. I called up B.A. to bolster this opinion, but mostly all I could hear was a piano and men singing raucous songs. So I had to deal with the invisible ghosts by myself for hours until at last I woke up in the blazing lights of the sitting room and called B.A. again.
"It's four o'clock," I said in a tone all my mother's children would have recognized. "You're married."
B.A. didn't recognize this tone. Instead of quaking in his shoes, he greeted this information with shouts of jollity and appeals to the other men gulping brandy around him. Fortunately for B.A., however, he found a cab and came home.
The big news of yesterday, which one guest transmitted to the other guests, as I was too busy cooking to remember, is that B.A. and I are going to Canada on Thursday. More news about that on Monday.
Sporran is an inherently comical word.
"I wonder what I did with my sporran," said B.A. this afternoon. "I hope I didn't leave it in the cab."
"You left it on a chair in the office," I said. "You must have put it there when you hung up your coat."
"Sporran," mused B.A. "I'm a sporran again Catholic."
Update: Today is Candlemas, and here is my column about Candlemas in the CR!