Where Did You Get that Hat?

I've sat down and done bugger all today. That is, if you discount piano practice and a pile of laundry. A pile made larger by the the roll-on, roll-off stream of visitors last week. Three different male friends, on three different days, accompanying Dearest husband up to Lords for the cricket. Usually it's spread out across the summer, but not this time. Fast and furious they came. Each and every one bowling in, brandishing a bottle and bonhomie.

All fairly relaxed stuff, if you disregard the 5.30 starts to leave at 6.30am. To get a good place in the queue. Of course, I get up to lead the way with coffee and toast. I am nothing, if not game.
They are old codgers who have known each other since school days and this is now, an annual ritual.
No wives involved. So that leaves me as the nominal matron in charge. I don't comment on the serial smoking of Mehari's Red Orient cigars.
In the garden, if you please.
No, I didn't. Who do you think I am? Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard?  How could I say that, when his look of contentment was far from the disapproving eyes of his other half.

I rescue another guest's giant packet of pork sausages, Costco's finest,  from being left overnight in the boot of his car:
"No, Malcolm, they will not be fine. No, Malcolm, freezing them when you get home will not do the job..."

Harridan that I am, I announce at 10.30pm that it is time for bed. Regardless of how much is still being said. Dear Lord, they have the whole of the next day ahead to sit and talk and snooze and count the runs. I ignore the comment about Boot Camp and stick to my guns.
Dearest unearths the cricket hat after his father. It sits porkpie fashion on his head, a tad too small. But makes him look a little like Don Draper (after I've had a couple of gins and I squint).

As I watch these men from an upstairs window, setting off together in the early hours of the morning, I always smile. For this moment in time, they are young codgers, all over again.