swigging from a can and talking morosely into his mobile telephone.
There was a background hum of noise, male and female voices and a lot of laughter.
The children seemed to have multiplied, and had gravitated toward one another in order to form a merry band of mischief makers.
It was clear that the adults were all occupied with the party, so they could run and whoop and chase each other with unsupervised abandon.
I smiled at them, envied them slightly. All of the people in the room seemed to take so much for granted:
that they would be invited to social events, that they would have friends and family to talk to,
that they would fall in love, be loved in return, perhaps create a family of their own.
How would I celebrate my own fortieth birthday? I wondered. I hoped I would have people in my life to mark the occasion with me when the time came.
Perhaps the musician, the light of my new life? One thing was certain, however:
I would not, under any circumstances, be celebrating in a golf club.
When I returned to our table, it was empty. I put Raymond’s pint down and sipped my Magners.
I supposed he’d found someone more interesting to talk to.
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