When we were allowed, and it was my Best Beloved’s birthday, six of us had lunch together.

So, good friends invited us and erected (without, so they say, any martial discord) a sturdy  gazebo so we could all sit outside, be safe.

And just talk.

Chat, cut across one another with an anecdote, digress, suggest a good book read, rail at politicians, tease, compliment on the lovely food, tell stories, just relax with people we know very well, and laugh, all of it for hours – no ‘lunch party’ just good friends.

It was such a highlight – and was rather giddily exhausting.

It has been a long time since we did that. 

In our house in this nearly a year of more or less lockdown, there are no-need-to-finish sentences, chats about the dog’s welfare (always a topic of conversation), who is doing the washing, discussion about what to watch on tv with the inevitable ‘wasn’t he in that thing we watched, you know the one set in Northumbria with that woman who was in ……..,’ endless half conversations about how awful the government are, and more about Trump.

And, which small projects have to be done today – or tomorrow, or the next day.

(Today, for me it was pickling red cabbage and doing the ironing. For the BB it is a gentle start to podcasting his book, a very gentle start I have to say, and reading the beginning of a friend’s book.)

And it is not just us. I was talking to a neighbour on my dog walk this morning and she said she was getting to the point of not wanting to ring friends because she had nothing much to say – minding children, cleaning the kitchen floor, dog walking….

And another acquaintance who said it was so nice to chat to someone she didn’t know that well because it meant she made a ‘chatty effort.’

We have a Zoom call tonight – and yes they have fallen by the wayside from the early days when we would have several a week – and it means I will spend some time in the next couple of hours thinking of something, anything, interesting I can say.

(Leave alone the fact my hair is a mess after walking in rain and wind and whether I will try and make it look presentable, or just not bother.)

( And likewise with the ironing – do I really need to bother? I ironed a white linen shirt bought on our September trip to Italy – I think I might have mentioned that before – worn last I can’t remember when or why, or when or why I might wear it again….)

I wear either dog walking boots, or slippers. And it is jeans, a t-shirt and a jumper. I would say 80 per cent of my wardrobe is hanging there doing nothing. ( I have this fantasy that they get up in the wee small hours and make all kinds of interesting outfit combinations and sneak out for Covid-free meet ups with other people’s unused wardrobes.)

My dog walking friend called me today ( we haven’t met up since lockdown) and I suggested we talked and walked. We will each go on our own dog walk and we will talk on the phone as we do it.

(We will also arrange to swap her marmalade for my pickled red cabbage when I make one of my occasional trips to the ‘delights’ of Petersfield.)

So, please, dear reader, don’t tell me that you are discussing Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations with your re-ingnited group of university friends one of whom is now an interesting tech millionaire.

Or, you have set up a local poetry discussion group and you are exploring Blake’s oeuvre.

Or, you have surprised yourself by getting involved in an Instagram group advising on the best make-up for an older woman to make herself ‘feel good by looking good’.

Or, you find yourself soothed by chatting daily to your sourdough starter,

Please don’t.

Mind you Wittgenstein’s black swans stuff was always a good conversation starter at a party – my political philosophy degree must come in useful for something.