There we all were gathered, underneath Chinese paper candles in a typically wet English garden. Hopping around to the sound of two or three guitars played almost at random, Spanish singing and finger clicking galore. In the rain. The hoots of raucous laughter only partly alcohol induced. Three different languages - English, German and Spanish. The English in the minority. Two against the four Germans and five Spaniards.

I don't speak Spanish. Nor do I understand it. Sitting there and letting another language, especially one as beautiful as Spanish, wash over you is a wonderful thing. First comes the admiration and the jealousy. I wish I could speak like that. It sounds like musical rain on a beautiful lake somewhere in Italy with the little boats tugging past. And people eating biscuits. Italian ones.

Then comes the realisation that although you don't understand the words, you know what they are talking about (namely keeping your kidneys warm). There's something about languages which intices me to listen and nod and laugh.

(The Eternal Optimist - yes, another barbecue scenario. No, let's go further. Another WET barbecue scenario. Another parasol-over-barbecue-keeping-the-sausages-dry deal. But never again will I doubt or question your optimism. Twice has it beat my doubt and pessimism into the mud which is currently our gardens.)