On this first of May write this for the thirtieth of April, yesterday was forgotten in the aftermath of the concert party on the twenty-ninth. The party was fine, the band was good, and the star solo performer was awful. Her courage to get up on stage and to do a young woman's show was admirable.
The whole day of the thirtieth was spent trying to recover pictorially those things that had been messed up the evening before. The pictures of the boss' daughter on stage, eyes closed crooning of lovers with a heart of stone, her father droning out an Italian love song. And wandering along the aisles, time was spent avoiding wine glasses deposited on the floor for lack of tables and elderly women dancing in the corridors. A good time was had by all.
The next day was spent nurturing depressions, arguing with the wife over money and, as said, trying to rescue worthwhile pictures, wait for it!
from the dregs of Friday night.
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