16 May 2020
Saturday. Bought a second diary today, in burgundy leather, with a ribbon. The first one is for the guests. This one is for me.
A host must keep two books. One sits on the table where anybody can pick it up, and it says what a guest ought to know, because a dinner party with no chance of leaving early is not a party, it is a hostage situation, and I have standards. The other book stays in my apron pocket and says what I actually think.
What I think tonight: the locker is ready, the freezers hum in a pleasing minor key, the table is laid for six and I have written every place card twice because the first set leaned.
Mid-May, and the first cold nights have the shops full of people buying soup in tins. I bought shallots. Soup is a reduction: patience, heat and knowing when to stop stirring.
One week to the first sitting. I have practised my entrance, my exit and my excuse for being out at the shops when the guests wake, which I am told is a tradition.
— B., your host
