It's 0137 or maybe it's later. And from the hot tub it feels like a summer night, but in reality it's winter. And the sky is clear, and open, broken only by the stressed, tangled branches of deciduous trees. And it's star lit, and we watch as occasional planes flash red and white like commits above. And we're talking about all those crazy parties we used to have, and all the girls we've slept with, and not about the boys we've slept with. And BM sings the tired tiger song, and somewhere from the wood on which the hot tub fringes an owl cries, and the undergrowth bussles, and our voices are carried by the cool night wind, and rising steam.
And a few hours pass, and the drinks run dry, and the lights across the valley fade, we make a run inside. And it's not late enough to sleep, and in a moment of London Preppyness we watch Miami Ink on DMAX. Which we've been pre-recording for a number of weeks now. And after the fifth episode finishes I notice a bottle of crème de cassis, and immeditatly crave a Kir Royale. And spend the next fifteen minutes hunting for a bottle of Moet et Chandon, and eventually give up and go back to Miami Ink. And as the sun comes up, and the hills unroll it's so unlike winter and so much like a summer gathering, that we're disorientated. And we all vow to come home, only for the company in those prime beach months.