when to stop talking

I went to an industry "do" last night for the first time in years. 
It was kind of fun to get dressed up and be glam Sara and it was actually wonderful to see old friends from places that I used to work. 

(Just to meandre for a second, I've bumped into people recently who I haven't seen for a while all of whom have been telling me with great shock and wonder how much weight I've lost.  I got lots more comments like that last night too.  As an exercise challenged person who hates dieting or weighing herself, or indeed looking in the mirror very much, I suppose I have to take their word for it.  However, rather than take the compliment, I'm thinking that clearly I used to be a huge fat knacker, or that people just have an image in their heads of me as a short fat person.  I add the short because people are often surprised at my height and one super lovely friend last week was quite shocked at how tall (or not short) I was after a gap of a year or so since we met.)

Anyway, at said "do", the very last conversation I had was with a lovely producer who'd clearly had a very bad day.  He proceeded to rant quite animatedly at me using many unbloggable words to describe the TV head honchos who'd just turned down his amazing project.  Feeling bad that he was letting these people make him so angry, I in turn spouted positive pointless platitudes to try and disperse the bile, but only really served to annoy him.  I then did something I don't usually do, which was to cite my little magic man in my attempt to give him some perspective on the general bullshit of TV and how it's really not worth it. 

It didn't work, in fact as we both laughed, trapped in this crazy funny and intense exchange, he ended by saying he wanted to dig a hole and put me in it. 
I've never had that said to me before and although I should have been offended, I actually found it quite funny.
So on my way to work I was thinking about writing this post and deciding that I really need to learn when to stop talking, (like I should have to the poor taxi driver on the way home who practically heard my life story from Park Lane to Finchley).

However I've just had call from the nice producer, who'd felt so bad about his rant on waking this morning, that he found my mobile number so he could apologise for being so very grumpy and taking a joke too far. 

So maybe there is room for a cock-eyed optimist in a room full of TV cocks.
But I do need to learn to shush a bit too.
And really, I must dig out some photos to see if they're right and I was as fat as they all remember