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
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