YES! I have survived!
And a small tip.
Not a great start to the week. On Tuesday, we went to drinks with the Jockey’s dad and his mate, the Trainer. Another neighbour turned up, who Madame knew from 45 years ago when he played at every Hunt Ball, Coming Out Dance, Charity Event and Beano in the developed world. (Goodwood to Cirencester and fifty miles either side of that corridor - and Monmouthshire once.)
Evening shade, rural idyll, sitting outside sipping Rose - what could possibly go wrong?
Admittedly I had missed lunch, and I was probably unwise to kick off with a small heart-starter, but I just thought a Gin would set me up. Our host brought out a small bowl of those biscuity things with nuts and dried fruit that always seem to cost £9.00 a box of ten and then some crisps. A little later, a plate of smoked salmon on wholemeal bits was passed around and gratefully received. My eye told me that there were probably three pieces each, and together with a small bowl of roasted chorizo bits, I might survive. Not to worry, said the body-part I laughingly call my brain; Madame will gird the loins circa 20:00 hours, and we’ll be away and back in time for quelqu’un on the munchie front.
After two hours, there was no discernible girding, but the atmosphere was much livelier, and there was more laughter, and we discussed training, and Bow Echo and Clarkson and drought; a word which did not apply to the Jockey’s dad’s cellar. More Rose came and was consumed, and we discussed mortality, moral compasses, socialism and the impact of wokery. By now it was four hours in, and I had started to compose a note in my mind, much along the lines of Sir Robert Scott’s last letter. “…we are setting a good example to our countrymen, if not by getting into a tight place, by facing it like men when we were there. We could have come through had we neglected the sick”.
At 11:45 the game was up, and our poor host was left to count the appalling cost of having a few locals and the Editor of BOP over for an early evening Sherbert.
In the cold light of day, I realised I had, in fact, come through. I was reminded by a slightly vengeful tone that I had almost fallen over, that I had not been seen in “that” (such a venomous word) condition since Pterodactyls lived in St James Park; that I had devoured in four mouthfuls a bacon and egg banjo, and the fact that my trousers were neatly folded and my shoes placed side by side told me that Madame had sacrificially, not neglected the sick.
There is a brief scene in the James Bond film Golden Eye when the second villain played by Alan Cunmmings says in a dreadful Russian accent, “Yes!! I am invincible,” before being drenched in liquid CO2 and turning him to ice cubes.
I hope one or other outcome happens soon!
Figures of the day
We sat last night for the once-in-400-years moment that was the eclipse. We sat in the garden at 6:00 pm as the blazing sun did its best impression of being… well… there. It hung there, then went behind some trees. We made suitable noises about the mysteries of God and the wonder of his works, and made noises about the smallness of man when compared to The BHA.
The Sun continued towards what it normally does, which is to set at around 8.30 pm.
It got a bit cloudy. The need for special glasses seemed overstretched, because the ONLY moment of significance was when the local Robin went into full shagging call, and all 200 woodpigeons said goodnight to each other.
Frankly, Milton was stretching it a bit in Paradise Lost when he said;
"O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,
Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse
Without all hope of day!"
We stopped wandering about 8:45 pm and had a restoring sherbert!
Finally, AMERICAN BAY in the 3:45 Beverley catches the eye… more than the sun did anyway.