10 July 2027
Saturday. A paper hat, red, slightly crumpled, left on the seat at the head of my table after last night’s midwinter dinner.
U. thinks it was mockery. I think it was a thank-you note in the form of a hat. We have agreed to disagree, which in this household means he has written his version and I am writing mine.
Here is what I know about that table. They came as a group of friends, booked privately, with nobody else among them, which is how every one of my sittings works; I do not seat strangers together. They wore the crackers’ hats from the moment they came round. They argued about everything. One of them sang a carol in the dark.
And when the hour was up, as happens to every table whether it has found the door or not, the gamesmaster opened up and walked them out to sit down and talk it over. They did not have to stay for the main course. Nobody ever does. That is the great sorrow of my career.
The hat is on the mantelpiece, beside U.’s goose. The mantelpiece is filling up with things guests and friends have left me. I find I do not mind.
— B., your host
