When I noticed a headline flash up on the BBC website earlier this week that a flight from Scotland had been diverted due to a pair of unruly passengers on board I just knew that it had been bound originally for Lanzarote. Duly, and not without some sense of foreboding, when I clicked on the link to see the story in detail, I found indeed it had been. Fortunately, because I wouldn’t have put it past them – have I ever told you the story about when my mother was thrown out of a Lan Kwai Fong karaoke bar - the errant pair proved not to have been my parents. They had an untroubled journey to that charming resort in the Canary Islands and have spent a pleasant enough week “we won’t be going back though” enjoying a walk to see the volcanos and otherwise soaking up the sun and, I suspect, a decent amount of Tia Maria and Pernod. Of course I’m only joking really. I knew it couldn’t have been them. The flight concerned had left from Glasgow. Obviously. My parents flew from Edinburgh of course. Just saying.
I don’t normally bore you with my weekend plans, but I’m quite excited about this one. I’m so full of anticipation in fact that I was able to deal with being let down at lunch today, having very much looked forward to introducing someone to the delights of El Pastor in Borough Market, with a degree of equanimity. You know what I did? After a quick and fruitless search for some orzo in the nearby Waitrose I returned to my work station and read a book for half an hour. Didn’t even have fish and chips.
The thing is I’m being taken to Twickenham tomorrow. My host has invited me to a round at the Berkshire ( I was standing on the first tee of the Blue course, appropriately enough, when I heard that Maggie had resigned ) followed by lunch in the clubhouse and then off to the game. Whilst on the subject of my father’s behaviour the last match I went to was Scotland v Ireland in Dublin some eleven years ago. It was a chastening experience having to lead a parent out of a beer hall at two in the morning as he pleaded to be allowed to stay for another recital of “Living Next door to Alice” and one more pint of Guinness. I’ve got a bottle of Pomerol on Scotland to win and furthermore am delighted to say all four of my children are supporting the right team, much to Sophie’s chagrin.
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