Just spent a delightful evening at Day of the Raj in Mill Hill, which did serve mutter paneer, which was a relief. In typical fashion we ordered far more than we could reasonably eat, and then didn't. My "women's group" as we call ourselves, is a group of women who were broadly at college or loosely connected together, and we have been meeting up kind-of-monthly for about ten years. More, maybe. We've been through a lot together.
Tonight's conversation covered everything from whether you need bottled water for the imminent war (there might be a scare), tales from the workforce coal-face, discussions about tupperware (we are all feminists, honest), Manolo Blahnik's, and the returning of S's son's shoes which he had conveniently left at some friends who live near me. I never go anywhere without a small child's pair of shoes, honestly. We're like Sex in the City, but less thin, and don't have our dialogue written by a cadre of gay men. At least, I don't think we do.
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