Friday 8th September, 2017

 

The horrendous events in the Caribbean notwithstanding it’s been a bit of a quiet old week.  In the good old days we used to go sailing in the BVI.  You may recall me telling you how I once managed to lodge the catamaran on a coral reef and what an outcry that caused from the family not least given their ecological sensitivities.  I really didn’t do much damage, other than to my self-esteem.  Irma, however, has totalled the place.  Seriously though, what an absolute mess.  Awful.

 

I did at least manage to drag myself out for a run mid week.  With the exception of the odd brush with reefs I pride myself on my sense of direction, but on this occasion too it failed me.  Diverted from my regular route by some work being done to the canal path I decided to cut the run short and head straight back across town to the work station.  Below is my Strava feed tracking the route I took.  Talk about a meander!  What it doesn’t show is how, when I eventually realised I had been running north instead of south and was deep in Hackney, my pace picked up quite handily and after a further period of disorientation I literally whizzed down the A10 back to more familiar territory. 

 

 

 

Enough about me and my paltry jog.  My brother Jamie nipped up and down Mont Blanc yesterday though he took a guide with him.  Set off at 5.45am and was back in time for supper.  He was slightly humming and hawing earlier in the week about whether or not to do it, but in the process of helping him with some cursory research on the practicalities of scaling the mountain in a day I stumbled across a website on which climbing folk record their thoughts about taking on the highest peak in Europe.  I think this was the entry which clinched it for him.

 

 

Ah the patter.  Wouldn’t that inspire you too?  I have to admit I don’t know what “bojo” is specifically.  Maybe you can help me Iain?

Friday 1st September, 2017

I went up to Scotland on Saturday morning, after crowing loudly in my missive the day before you might recall, pretty confident that I would win our family golf competition, which for almost a decade I had essentially made my own.  Alas I headed back south on Tuesday – annoyingly the day before the new bridge opened - with my tail between my legs.   If I’m honest with you it’s been the same story for a few years now.  I might blame Father Time catching up with me except that the winner this year was my Dad, 81 today in fact.  Happy to him. 

 

No.  I’m just rubbish at golf these days, though a bit unlucky to boot.  Striding forthrightly down the 1^st I found that my ball had trickled off the course and was lying one inch out of bounds.  A passing group of South Africans offered to kick it back into play and I must say I was very tempted to accept their help, but honour got the better of me.  Little good did a clear conscience do.  I scored a pathetic 9 stableford points on the way out.  A greasy sausage roll with a healthy dollop of HP sauce at the half way hut revived my fortunes briefly, but by the time we got to the 18^th my number was pretty much up and just to rub salt into the wounds my drive ended lying on the tarmac of Granny Clarks Wynd from where, you will know, it must be played or a penalty taken.  As I approached, a 9 iron at the ready, two Italian ladies walking by stooped and handed me my ball.  I required a birdie at the very least and for the second time that day a sneaky little devil jumped onto my shoulder.  Don’t worry.  I brushed it off and ended up in the Valley of Sin anyway so whatever.

 

Enough of the golf talk.  Speaking of tails between the legs Hen has achieved one of the key elements of her plan when setting out on her road trip through Europe.  She has taken on a Spanish greyhound ( galgos ) from a dog rescue centre in Cartegena.  I wasn’t going to include the photo below, but I can’t resist it.  Too sweet.  Myrtle and Hen.  And, if the mood takes you, you might like to lob the charity, Galgos del Sol, a penny or two.  They do an amazing service in a country where it seems dogs are really not cared for very much to say the least.

 

 

 

Very satisfactory lunch today, other than being let down by someone hence depriving me of some decent banter and a mound of sushi.  The compensation was that with some unexpected time on my hands, and a fancy dress party to go to tomorrow evening, I found the most terrific shop up by Old Street station emerging from which I Boris Biked it back to the office bearing a Bugsy Malone trilby, shiny white tie and braces and an inflatable machine gun.  Sorted.