Noel nosh-up

Just survived the annual Christmas lunch for local retired old farts up at the village mairie (official town hall). Kicked off at mid-day and eventually emerged into the evening mists at around 4.30 feeling a bit fuzzy. Headed for home and took the dog for an evening stagger. Was a good do. Grub was prepared by neighbour Thingy (forgotten name) and his wife Wotsit (forgotten name) who run the restaurant at nearby Magnat-l'Etrange. They always knock up a fab menu accompanied by plenty of vin blancs, rosés, rouges and champagnes with optional cassis and jugs d'eau, not to mention a course of pear ice cream swimming in a lethal amount of delicious calvados. On the mayor's table there were a couple of, presumably, on duty gendarmes complete with guns in holsters, just in case an old fart or deux became a tad over exuberant due to imbibing beaucoup de laughing juice. Interestingly, many of the assembled dodderies burst into communal song after a few tipples and I, of course, joined in with hearty grunts as I didn't know the words, and half way through the nosh-up same dodderies began enthusiastically waving red napkins in the air while, again, singing some jolly old song as I grunted along singing 'vive la revolutution' and 'Boris Johnson est merde'. Have to say it was quite a relief to escape while still being able to assume the vertical. Shame I missed out on the fruit, choccies and coffees. Wouldn't be at all surprised if a few brandies suddenly appeared. Buggaire-moi, these old folks are a hardy bunch. Passed the mairie later that evening. Lunch appeared to have finished. Christmas lights were twinkling on the tree outside the venue.