The wild leafy suburbs of London

My sisters had arrived, and our long term pals from up the road were keen to be reunited, so I cooked something warming that we could eat in the garden watching the sun go down. The couple coming were bringing their dogs, a pair of well behaved golden retrievers, so the Lord and master dog-proofed the boundaries and put down a water bowl while my sisters laid the plastic table in the gazebo for six. Meanwhile I clattered the pots and pans. The pals arrived in the nick of time. T*** let the dogs loose and S**** drew a bottle of red zinfandel from her rucksack. However, in her excitement she misjudged the edge of the counter, and with a flourish knocked the bottle and it kind of exploded. It took three of us about 15 minutes to mop up the mess and ensure there were no stray splinters of glass. I can't honestly describe it as a disaster though, because I'm awfully fond of events which end in some sort of epithet. There's a charming literality in cracking open a bottle of wine