It turns out that Rosie (under another name) is in fact something of a star in the firmament of the Cotes d'Armor music scene, whose renown had already reached me, so I felt rather trepidacious and awestruck, and feared I would have no conversation at all and would leave her with an impression of a rather pitiful person who has to blog to compensate for inadequate social skills. However, we quickly earned ourselves some impatient and supercilious looks from the serving staff by completely ignoring the menu because we were talking too much, and it was one of those times when I had to metaphorically sit on my hands to stop myself from interrupting because I was too interested, and we never found out half of what we set out to tell each other about ourselves because the digressions were too interesting. So I think perhaps we'll do it again. I took the camera but no photographs because we were talking too much. Rosie said she half expected me to get it out and start photographing the food. As this was a rather peculiar blue cheese and bacon quiche and not very photogenic I gave it a miss.
The prospect of busy days doing unfamiliar and unprecedented things, especially involving meeting new people or being out in the world often has me feeling rather not quite up to the task, then when they actually happen I'm often quite surprised at my energy and stamina. I parted from Rosie feeling very chirpy, went about my errands in town, and even did a bit of low level Christmas-ish shopping, including the material shop for a piece of écru coloured silk taffeta to line the Princeling's mithril coat, which is knitted but not made up and I thought would benefit from being lined. It has just occurred to me that his mother reads this blog sometimes so I have probably spoiled any element of surprise.
Then home to admire Tom's excellent parquet floor laying, walk the dog, stick a fillet of frozen salmon and a potato gratin in the oven, and out to hear Baroque cellos and Sephardic chant in the church in Moncontour. We often swear we will never go to these local events, which start late and where everyone claps between movements, then we usually do.
Postscript: At that point we were about to set off, when Molly, reaching her usual pitch of excitement at the prospect of going out in the car, stopped, staggered, and limped round in a confused circle. We picked her up and put her on the sofa, where she continued to look confused. So we decided we couldn't go out. Not much hope of a vet at that hour on a Friday, and within quite a short time she returned to normal, though rather quiet. I'll ring the vet tomorrow and see if she's any ideas. I feel bad about letting the friend down we were going to meet for the concert, though I was able to catch her before she left, but I wouldn't have enjoyed it worrying about M. anyway.