(no subject)
Anthony was a reserved man. Here more than ever, he kept to himself. And unlike in England, there wasn’t much Guy could do. No boys on silver platters to be wheeled into the room, no distinguished gentlemen to invite over, no women in search of a suitable husband to annoy him with. Nothing to get him out of himself, or away from art and the books he devoured like Saturn his son.
The only thing he could do - and did every year - was to throw his old friend a birthday party. And so he did.
He set it up at their hut, like in old days they would have had it in their apartment. He had borrowed some music and jazz sounded throughout the hut. Drinks there were enough. After all, it was a party thrown by Guy Burgess. There would be drinks.
He had invited everyone he knew (everyone liked the excuse of a party, in that this island and London were quite alike) and asked them to bring food if they felt obliged to bring a gift.
To add to the festivities he had set up a table with paints and brushes. In the spirit of art and creativity, every guest was invited to take a brush, take some paint and paint whatever they were inspired to paint onto the outside of the hut.
A brush in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other, Guy walked about to greet the coming guests.
((OOC: Everyone is invited and all times are welcome. Take a brush, take a drink and get going!))