Right. Back in the saddle and raring to go for the run in to Christmas after the most fantastic week’s holiday. We were invited as guests to an amazing house near the picturesque seas-side village of Scario. I don’t mind admitting I went there with some trepidation. I had been warned to arm myself with plenty of anti-gout pills and aspirin as we would be drinking the property’s home made wine. I’m not as snooty about wine as most of you think I am, but cheap stuff, especially Australian, really doesn’t agree with me. I shouldn’t have worried. The red was fantastic. It was served in flagons to the lunch and dinner tables ( separate rooms of course ) and we drank gallons and gallons. I am the size of a whale, but it was worth it. And not even the slightest of hangovers all week.
The gardener ( who was also the vintner ) and I became bezza’s and I spent several hours in the cellar learning how he was making this deliciousness. But it was after we left, exchanging WhatsApp messages, that I noticed his profile picture. Strange I thought to myself, as I had understood he wasn’t married, till it dawned on me it wasn’t his wife he was posing with, but a previous guest and her children! I know. If there’s one thing worse than a wine snob it’s a name dropper.
Anyway, we had a ball including one evening when we stood up from the dinner table at 2.00am, adjourned to the drawing room for a second attack at the vin rouge and a few hands of bridge, before the tone of the evening deteriorated somewhat. When I glanced at my watch after a particularly enthusiastic rendition of “Living next door to Alice” and saw it was 5.45am I thought discretion was the better part of valour and retired to the boudoir.
It was such a fun week that when I got back to the office earlier this week I thought I would pre-empt the letter of thanks that Sophie was writing by sending our host a quick text by way of thanks. Were you wondering where Scario was?
Ooops! Though as you might recall, I have form on this front.
Talking about disorientating effects, I was driving along a dual carriageway just west of Cambridge at around midnight on the way back from a party ( what a social whirr my life is ) last Friday. I pulled quietly out into the fast lane to overtake someone when suddenly there’s a car streaking towards me driving the wrong way down the road. Lucky, as I told you in a previous road incident I relayed to you concerning an involuntary traverse of the Prancing Horse roundabout just outside Newmarket, I’ve got the reactions of a F1 driver and swerved not a moment too soon back into the relative safety of the slow lane, but this was an un-nerving moment I don’t mind admitting.
And if that wasn’t living dangerously enough the following morning I thought I would start a programme to reduce the effects of all that wine I’d consumed and went for a run. As I trundled, mercifully down a steep hill, towards the sleepy little hamlet of Dalham my progress was arrested by a policewoman who instructed me that the road was blocked due to an “incident” and, cursing gently between my gasping breath, I was forced to retrace my steps back up the accursed hill. All because, it transpired, some buffoon who works for the action group Christians in Sport thought he had become the target of a pair of Jordanian terrorists and had called in the Suffolk Constabulary Bomb Disposal Team. Read on…..
And if that were not enough for one week, yesterday Bob’s dog Weasel had a litter of puppies. So sweet.
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