Before ascending into Marcus's tree-top boys' world last night, however, I had spent a very convivial hour helping Darlene drink a bottle of good, cheap California Shiraz. Darlene's and my talk had maybe not been so deep--and then again maybe it had. We spoke of Friday; she was princely in her tact, and made no unwarranted assumptions. We also had a good run-down gossip about those we know and loathe, and added another chapter to the ongoing 'Saga of Peter and Mrs. Parsnip.' Peter's slavering grossness is the subject of much fascinated abhorrence to us. The wine was delicious, and Darlene artfully kept my glass full, almost without my noticing, such that when I left her I was not a little squiffy.