An average in-kitchen Saturday afternoon.

"It's not a question, it's a life!"
"And that is 45thousand. And _that_ is 45thousand. And THAT is please. If I throw myself off the chair, you know why.!
"It's shocking, I might cry. I'M NOT CRYING."
"I keep spilling my teeea!"
"Mum, it's going to be reeeally weird without chocolate bits in. I'm confused."
"Well that's because your stairs are slanted. How many years have I been telling you to unslant those stairs?! And NOTHING HAPPENS."
"Well, you need to keep trying."
"YOU'RE very trying. Heh heh."
"I just got chocolate in my tea!"
"We need like the Dyson hand dryers that go *kkkkrrrrcccchhhhh*"
"Try not to use the different, um, the thing... You have to leave it otherwise it goes, um nono, you have to go..."
"WHAT'S GOING ON?!"
"What do you mean you're not hot enough yet?"
"Well I'm only a centigrade not hot enough, but you know, the thought's there."

Meet Mister Squirrel.

We made friends in Christ Church Meadows. He is veeery cute.

Just past tipsy.

It smells of spilt alcohol. Muggy and cloying, the stench is sticking to my clothes and staining my fingers. In a detached vanity I walk through the mess of people. My hands catch at their clothing as I pass; the ones I don't know I avoid touching, knowing, seeing. Shy away. The tiles are smooth under my feet, the soles not protected from their cold by a tights-layer of thin threads. My balance is always the first to go, and I stumble as I walk. One step, two step, concentrate. Pride keeps me upheld.
The noise and loud and shouts of the people who's volume goes up the more they drink are thudding against my temples. I hear the smack of a glass on wood. The laughter at a bawdy joke. The gurgle of liquid being poured into a mug. Suddenly the mug is in my hand, and the drink is sharp on my tongue, and the heat of my friend's fingers is tight against my palm. To one side we hold our own conferences and our own meetings and our own parties; our corner of familiarity in the fog of strange people. A card game starts in the middle of the floor. I sink to join it in a flurry of velvet skirts. The cards are sticky with drying drink. It's hard to concentrate in the noise. A jug of bitter-sweet liquid is being passed from grasp to grasp. My hands shake as I put down the mug. I'm not even half-drunk yet. But I think that's enough.

Invasion.

Sitting in my room, in the middle of the floor, and suddenly the house feels so big... Like a cereal box that's nearly finished, or a cupboard cleared of clothes for a holiday, or, well, a house emptied of all the extra people. Only 24 hours. Sitting in my room and it's hard to believe that the abnormal, once-in-a-lifetime, thoroughly bewildering event actually ever happened.
Mum's old pen pal has been and gone. The family of seven that followed her like a band of ducklings have been, eaten, slept, talked, and gone. The moment I walked in through the door to a kitchen full of strangers to the moment they piled into their van again and were gone seems like a lifetime ago. An influx of unknown bodies, a rush of German words, a museum-collection of mattresses, clothes and belongings, and then suddenly it's all over...
I think I managed about ten German words. Oops.