This morning I woke up laughing; I’d been dreaming about Maggie’s false teeth. Intrigued? No more than we were. Last night’s readaround was a feast of literary fayre, with almost all the party of thirteen bringing something tasty to the table.
The first challenge, of course, was making our way to the venue, a significant quest even for the most seasoned of orienteerers. Yet it is a fitting testimony to our collective determination, that there was barely room enough, in Maggie’s generous conservatory, to seat us all.
As each in turn served up their piece, we laughed, grimaced and sighed in unison. From a humorous recitation, complete with alarmingly accurate sound effects, through several enticing opening pages of crime novels, articles giving vent to the some of life’s frustrations (squirrels, left-handedness and the unwanted attentions of the Chinese tourist paparazzi) and short stories speaking of love and, oh yes, false teeth.
In the comfort and conviviality of our hideaway, we welcomed each dish, allowing the flavours to settle before adding our unique spice to the mix.
When darkness surprised us, we realised it surely was time to retrace our steps; hopeful caravans were hastily agreed as one by one cars turned and twisted their way back to the main thoroughfare and peace returned to that particular corner of Kilmaurs. Each head, no doubt, full of promises to self, to finish that story, add a bit here, remove a word there, something to sleep on and perhaps to dream about.
Speaking of which, what about Maggie’s false teeth? Well they weren’t Maggie’s exactly, but it makes a good headline, doesn’t it?
Dorothy Gallagher