Restoratives

A thousand apologies for the pause in transmission.
This has been the most miserable week. However, today was vastly improved. The restoration process was aided to some extent by a fabulous lunch--we, the Musketeers, eschewed soup in favour of oysters (six of the little blighters each, although 'somebody', unable to delay gratification, purloined at least one of mine) and chateaubriand, plus a bottle of an assertive little red; a funky pinotage. We ordered fresh oysters, but the nitwits brought frozen. What IS the world coming to? I was appalled. Shocked and appalled.
We decided that it simply doesn't do to enumerate the number of times one' s consumed oysters, or caviar--it's so gauche--but better to try something like, "Oh yes, these are rather similar to those we had in Addis."(or Milan, La Paz etc.)
And no, I didn't pay. Moi? Chateaubriand? (Thanks to my favourite Antipodean.) Lunch, a mere two-hour repast, was in theory, a private little farewell. Which as it happened became entirely redundant. More good news.
And since you were wondering, the rumours about oysters are in the same league as carrots and darkness. Twaddle.