I and my large family seemed to be touring southern England, with maps, destinations and high points,  presumably in at least a minibus; but in order to host a cultural evening it was necessary to return home. Many guests arrived and an evening of music and poetry commenced. A printed programme told me I was to play on the piano a piece written in four flats. I asked the assembled company what four flats might mean but was disappointed that even C., a quietly brilliant boy I remember from prep school, could not give me a satisfactory answer. Happily I abandoned this, confessing that I had not sight-read a piece of music for a least 45 years. The programme rolled onwards; more guests arrived, dishevelled and awkward but nevertheless welcome, including a youngish child who managed to vomit all over a coffee table and carpet. For some reason this did not seem to bother me or anybody else.