We're visiting my parents.
They have a dining table that seats four. Located in what is really their entry way, it is pressed up against the front door, with the front wall of the house on one side, a desk on another, the stairs on the third side and the kitchen on the fourth.
We (including my mother in a wheelchair, Clara, Winton, Mitch, Myself and my Father) all sit uncomfortably around the thing, tangling our legs with table and chair legs and banging into each other.
Dinner involves close proximity to all of the following:
two small children, smeared in peanut butter
Husband (large, uncomfortable)
my father's hand, replete with 8 weeping stitches, which his Dr. has instructed him to leave open to "breathe"
my mother's inability to keep food down and tendency to throw up unexpectedly onto her dinner plate.
Happy Thanksgiving! I am MUCH slimmer than I thought I would be . . . Have you seen the BBC series Clatterford? It's all very like that here, except no one is intending to be hilariously disgusting.