Last weekend didn’t work out quite as I intended. Firstly you may recall how excited I was at the prospect of a return to the Berkshire for 18 holes and a good lunch. Well when I got home on Friday evening I had a call from my friend to tell me that he had apparently forgotten to inform his wife of our plan who insisted he was required for parenting duty in the morning. This meant he was being dragged along to watch his daughter in a netball match. As you know I’m no chauvinist, but really?? He needs to get a grip. In consolation, I thought to myself, at least it meant I would get a bit of a lie in.
Alas no. I was kicked out of bed at before 7 and, with Lottie away for the weekend on some Perse Upperself Expedition, was ordered to take her horse for a ride. Off I dutifully, if a little grumpily, trotted and whilst I might grudgingly concede that it was for the most part pleasant enough that was only up to the point I arrived at the entrance to cut through a farm yard at the same time as three police cars, blue lights flashing, came speeding up the country lane. It turned out someone had just found a poor tractor driver dead in the cab of his Massey Ferguson.
Other than a bit of huffing and puffing and one spin off his hocks Bertie took all the commotion in his stride and whilst a slight diversion was required we got home safe and sound and with enough time, I was informed/ordered, to bake a loaf of bread and plant some potatoes before being allowed to head off for what was left of the day and catch a lift to Twickenham.
I suppose I had bigged our chances up a bit in the pub beforehand, but so quickly did those hopes evaporate I never had the chance, at least so I thought, to reveal my colours during the game. You probably won’t be surprised to hear that I hadn’t gone in my kilt, nor was I wearing a Scotland rugby jersey or one of these orange Jimmy wigs. However, when not only the complete stranger sitting in front of me who had turned, condescendingly, to shake my hand every time England scored a try, but indeed the whole rank of English supporters alongside him turned to jeer and laugh at me as England hit the 50 point mark, I asked my friend how they all knew I was Scottish. “David” he said, “You’ve spent pretty much the whole match with your head in your hands and groaning”. What a fun sponge I am.
And sure, I know worse things happen in life, but all in all a pretty wretched day was neatly rounded off by a stone chipping my windscreen on the way home later that evening.
I remembered about that yesterday actually and, having arranged a visit from Autoglass, rang home to get the appointment scribbled into the diary. Hen answered the phone. “ A chip, “ she said, “ on your shoulder I imagine? Sorry, Dave, Autoglass won’t be able to fix that for you.” Many a true word spoken in jest. Anyway looking on the bright side….I didn’t have to have fish and chips at the desk today and instead had a terrific lunch with a sustainable investor. Missed a trick though. I forgot to tell him a haddock had been spared as a result.
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