I turned thirty-six at the weekend (which is just foul and hideous and obscene). My wife told me we were going to a private members' club my dad belongs to so we could have a few drinks with family. So we headed there Saturday night at about eight and I walked into a huge group of family and friends - people who'd come from such dark corners of the world as Leeds and Ascot, people who I don't see enough of because of work or distances or because people keep breeding. I honestly had no idea my wife had organised all of it or that so many people would take the time and effort to be there. I'd been full of cold and germs (and still am for that matter) for a couple of days so couldn't give it 100% but after necking two cans of Red Bull, some flu pills and having six pints, I gave it a good shot. I think it's fair to say a jolly wizard time with lashings of jelly and ice cream was had by all.
Now someone who doesn't know a horror writer might assume they're a grumpy bastard who likes nothing more than to plot violence and misery and grief while laughing about it because they have huge flaws in their personality that stops them interacting with real people on any meaningful level. While I put my hand up to sometimes being a grumpy bastard, the rest is crap - or at least it is for me. I love my family and friends; I wish there was time and more occasions for nights like Saturday because, if nothing else, it proves one very important thing.
When it comes to family and friends, they are what I mean when I say the world is darkness lit with little lights.