Butchering Neverland

 Were there ever a time or place that would stand the test of time through broad and narrow, Kit's party was it. For it was decked out with every imaginable school quad treat. The grandfather sat in the TV room sloughing down his treats with coffee and liberal doses of water, while I was making a fool of myself bumbling about the halls like some nudist who - from the outside at least- might look like he'd achieved nirvana.

The party was all but at an end, and there was I, attempting to reheat the gargantuan coffeemaker so that I could have one last "Hurrah" to a quarterlife well spent on philosophizing and generally housesitting for people of this kind. Kit's mother, a doting but perennially unfazed woman in her early 40's was negotiating (with herself so as not to intrude on all the festial engagements of others) what to add to an already enormous spread. As I said, the evening was drawing to a close, and everyone was about to leave, but she was still deciding on what to add.