We went to a party last night where we, in our fifties, were among the youngins. We were the poorest people there, most of the party-goers owning at least 2 houses and their own companies. Hors d'oevres and dessert, as well as wine was served in vast quantities. The men talked business and politics; the women chatted about children and tennis. Gun control was a topic I involved myself in, but since we all had the same opinion, the conversation was short.
My son Harry is spending the next semester in Copenhagen. A Danish couple we've known for a long time was at the party and offered to help Harry in any way through their many contacts in the city and around the country. When my daughter spent a semester in Quito, Ecuador, we knew the Ambassador there and suggested she contact her and her husband. Her response was: "Can't I go anywhere where you don't know someone?" Guess not.
The party broke up around 12:30; I was in bed by one. The guys took the dogs and went cross-country skiing a little while ago. I'm still in my pajamas, which I'm considering wearing all day, even though we're driving back to our house later. What's wrong with starting the New Year as a sloth?