Dear friend,

The soft market party has begun in earnest.

There’s plenty of capital in the punchbowl — and what are those juicy, fruity bits floating on top, partly skewered by pungent twigs of clove?

They look like Cat bonds, or maybe they’re CDOs, or hang on, are they swaps? Who can tell?

But who cares — they pump you up like a vodka and Red Bull on steroids!

The guys are all there, dressed to the nines and dripping gold like west coast rappers.

The music is loud. Everyone’s a little light-headed.

And who are those attractive ladies swaying provocatively by the buffet? They look fine — they’ve got class — a hushed and reverential whisper goes round that they’re the Lloyd’s of London posse.

But the boys had better make sure their chains are chunky enough and their diamonds glitzy enough — we hear these girls have very expensive tastes.

They are not cheap dates. But they look like they are worth it — the kind of sophisticated, experienced, ladies that every twenty-something red-blooded, rocket-fuelled Bermudian fantasises about hooking up with.

A couple of the younger reinsurers are getting a little woozy and a little smoochy — they have the hungry look of someone who has no intention leaving the party unaccompanied.

But what’s this? Some older couples are making their excuses — surely they’re not leaving early?

They protest that the music’s a bit too loud for them and they should be hitting the hay.

“We’ve had fun”, they say, “But you kids carry on — don’t let us spoil the party”

And then they’re out of the door.

The kids crank up the volume — it’s their first big night out and they’re going to make sure they don’t miss any of the fun — none of them want to be the first to break the mood and go home.

One gets the feeling that soon there will be spillages, tears, broken glass and jealous fights.

In the cold harsh light of day youngsters will wake up in strange bedrooms and wonder how they got there. And who is that malodorous slob in bed next to them? They looked so becoming the night before.

They will marvel at how they could have had thought it such a good idea to start ordering $300 bottles of champagne for everyone at 3am. They will hope there are no more nasty surprises that slipped their minds in the drunken frenzy of the night before.

What were they thinking? Were they thinking at all?

They will have a headache. They will feel poorer. They will regret. They will learn.