And Fahim and I got to go.
We received official invitations in the mail and everything.
At first, Fahim wasn’t even sure if he could go – work has been rather hectic and he’s on some tight deadlines with a project he’s in charge of, so it was touch and go. But he came home in good enough time to go, so I hurriedly got ready – ten minutes, I think – and we left.
It was at the British Council. Nope, not a spelling mistake, not the British Consul. Cuz there isn’t one here, but there’s an embassy instead. And they’re not on the same compound.
Fahim and I arrived – late. We showed our invite and were told where to go (harumph!), which we did (double harumph!). We found where we were supposed to be, entered the room, and looked around. We were at the back of a hall which was packed with chairs, most of which were filled. I pointed to some empty seats on the far side of the room, and Fahim pointed to the back row. Robin. Or Robs.
Remember Robs? He who calls everyone "Dahling" with a drawl. Robs of the best friend fame. Robs who works with Fahim. Robs who was one of the witnesses at our wedding.
And conveniently, there were empty seats beside him. So we made our way over – and that was an interesting job – and sat with him.
There were speakers who, guess what, spoke about Robert Knox and Richard Boyle, the author of Knox’s Words