A balmy spring evening with no rain and the temperature comfortably warm. What better circumstances than that for a gathering of the usual suspects, on the usual night, at the usual home, in the back garden?
My statement about the "usual suspects" was shouted down and replaced by universal agreement that the participants were all unusual, and by that point, slightly tipsy.
Wine was drunk, gumbo was eaten, and conversation flowed. The first of many such evenings now that last vestiges of winter have been banished.