A bittersweet occasion, as Janie and I joined an informal conclave to say goodbye to Toni (Antoinette) Friend, who had died a few days earlier and been interred at family funeral.
Toni’s sons, Will, Tom and John, organised a discreet, small gathering at Daphne’s, one of Toni’s favourite places.
John and Will each made a short, moving speech about their mum, but mostly the gathering was, in accordance with Toni’s wishes, a celebration of her life.
It was very tastefully done. We met several people we had met before and a few that we hadn’t met before. Janie took a few pictures, the best of which are below.
Toni would have enjoyed this gathering – it had all the hallmarks of her style – and she would surely have been proud of her boys for the graceful way the event was conducted.
Janie and I had planned a day off that Monday anyway, so Brian Eno’s seasonal bash shifting to the Monday worked well for us – a rare opportunity for Janie to join in that fun.
We had been keen to see Japan House in Kensington since we learned of its arrival in London:
It was well worth seeing – many different artists displaying subtle ideas about making art from, or at least enhanced by, paper.
Then on to Brian’s party. I was keen to get there in good time to join in the singing. This is not seasonal singing but it is an opportunity to join in with Brian’s rather excellent a capella choir. A mixture of old and modern songs, carefully honed week in, week out by the regulars, who largely manage to prevent keen irregulars like me from ruining the sound.
Plenty of time for some eating, drinking and chatting – as usual with Brian’s parties, we chatted with several very pleasant and interesting people – before the dancing started in earnest. Janie is never a wall flower when there is a chance to dance and I knew that Brian’s choice of music is mostly right up Janie’s street.
Two very tiring hours later, Janie and I thought we should make our excuses and go – we both had work in the morning and felt we had left it all out on the dance floor by then. Good times.
Long ago arranged and long looked forward to, the (ir)regular gathering of old boys from Alleyn’s seemed to be looming as normal (Walrus & Carpenter followed by Rajasthan), when out of the blue we received a missive from our (un)official organizer, John Eltham, with some unexpected changes.
There are 15 people signed up for our festive evening. PLEASE NOTE NEW VENUE – 200 YARDS DIFFERENCE 7.00PM Hung, Drawn & Quartered pub – 26-27 Great Tower Street… 8.00PM Sripur restaurant – 25 Great Tower Street – yes it is next door !
The change would be more than a little discombobulating for some. Let us not forget that Nigel Boatswain, for example, a few years ago, struggled to find a new venue that was described to him as “right in front of the Monument”, because he couldn’t figure out a landmark from which to navigate. Mike Jones, who had been our Geography teacher back in days of yore, must have found his former charge’s geo-spacial shortcomings somewhat chastening.
In fact Mike Jones was one of several people who was listed to attend this 6 December gathering but latterly dropped out. He might have found the name of the pub an affront to his liberal arts background. Not only does the name describe a particularly barbaric medieval form of capital punishment, but a grammatically flawed rendering thereof. In my minds ear, I can hear Mike Jones gently correcting…
…hanged, drawn & quartered, NOT hung. Paintings are/were hung, people unfortunate enough to be executed that way were hanged.
Execution of Hugh Despenser the Younger, …[from] the Froissart of Louis of Gruuthuse (Public Domain picture https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanged,_drawn_and_quartered)
That barbaric punishment was reserved for high treason and was abolished nearly 150 years ago, although the hanging bit stuck around a lot longer and treason only (technically) ceased to be a capital offence 20 or so years ago.
In these troubled times, of course, who knows what legislative changes our so-called leaders might make in the crime and punishment department. Further, many of us who gathered have been known to say publicly things that certain tabloid newspapers might deem to make us “enemies of the people”…which is to say, treasonous.
Personally I have far less to worry about than most of my compadres, as I am a Freeman of the City of London. Thus, if I were to be hanged, I could choose to be dispatched with a silken rope, not the common or garden rubbish rope that my co-conspirators would doubtless suffer. I find that thought incredibly reassuring in the present political climate.
But I digress.
In the end, nine of us gathered and a jolly good gathering it was too, although those who were unable to attend were, of course, sorely missed. In no particular order, the nine were: Ben Clayson, David French, David Wellbrook, John Eltham, Ollie Goodwin, Paul Driscoll, Paul Spence, Rohan Candappa, me.
It was an incredibly mild evening, enabling us to take our pre-dinner libations in the street, although John Eltham did complain about feeling cold at one juncture. But then again, John had removed his coat for some reason.
The Sripur Restaurant was heaving and our group of nine was clearly at least one more than the restaurant was expecting. To be fair, the booking for 14 which had descended to “probably 8-10” in some ways deserved its relegation. We all nine squeezed round a table that would have been comfy for six and just about OK for eight. It didn’t really matter.
The food was pretty good. Perhaps not quite as flavoursome as the Rajasthan (he says based on one main dish and some sides), but similar quality.
The Sripur Nine were all in pretty good form. The bants and reminiscences flew around the table like a metaphorical food fight with poppadom-Frisbees.
Towards the end of the meal, Rohan Candappa solemnly announced that he had a sports trophy to award. he noted that most of the people in our group had been pretty sporty at school; only one or two of us had not. But, as Rohan pointed out, there should be sports awards for exceptional performance even when it comes from someone less naturally sporty than most.
Rohan then passed an engraved trophy around the room for everyone to read, much to the mirth, one by one, of the readers…one by one, that is, to everyone except me. Once John Eltham had the prize in his hands, he was instructed to hand it to me.
9 June 1975 – Fives Quarter Final – Ian Harris beat John Eltham
What a moment in my less-than illustrious sporting career. A trophy. Of course, Rohan was right. I had never personally held a trophy for sport of any kind. That quarter-final win remains the pinnacle of my achievement at an individual sport.
Left to right: John Eltham (just in picture), Rohan Candappa, Paul Driscoll & Ollie Goodwin…with MY trophy centre
I proudly took my trophy back to the flat and have placed it in as suitable a location as I can currently muster – in the drinks cabinet section of my built-in book shelves and cabinets, between two personalised krugs (beer steins).
But I am not expecting my sporting awards (belated and future) to start and end here; why on earth should they?
…and who knows what future glories are to come in the world of real tennis, where I have managed quarter final berths (albeit losing ones) in each of the two years I have been playing internal tournaments at Lord’s. And occasionally representing the club:
So, my dear old school friends, especially the sporty ones, I need your help. I mean, obviously the drinks cabinet will do for the time being as a temporary resting place for my trophy, but clearly I need to have built a bespoke trophy cabinet for my current and potential future collection of sporting trophies. You fellows, accustomed to the world of sporting trophies, surely can advise me on the size and shape of trophy cabinet that will serve me best.
But that is about me and the future – this article is primarily about the splendid gathering of old boys eating, drinking, banting and making merry in the City. As usual the time flew by, until several folks with trains to catch realised that their choices were starting to diminish and that the evening should come to an end.
As usual with this group, we managed to avoid the dreaded bodmin, although some suggested that we should play the game of spoof to saddle one “boy” with the whole bill. We decided against, but I note on reading up on that (unfamiliar to me) game, that some play spoof for prizes and trophies. Perhaps I should get into spoof at a competitive level – I was a dab hand at bridge back in the old school days.
It was a great evening – I’m already looking forward to the next one.
Exceptional Schmaltz Herring; the people’s choice as well as the judge’s
Don’t ask me how or why she does it, but Jacquie seemed set on the idea of a seasonal herring fest again this year, despite her (and latterly us) being away for the regular season and despite the stupendous effort that must be involved.
Eight of us gathered for dinner at Jacquie’s place; Josh, Melody, Sonia, Michael, Hils, me and Janie.
We spent the early part of the evening – some would even call it late afternoon – drinking, chatting and (in some cases) getting to know each other. For me and Janie, this was the first time we’d met Sonia (Jacquie’s friend) and Melody (Josh’s girlfriend). Everyone else we’ve known for yonkers.
Hils and Janie on a previous occasion – neither Chez Briegal nor a herring-fest
In truth, to call the meal a herring fest is a bit of a misnomer – or more specifically an understatement – as the culinary delights on show go way beyond herring; smoked salmon, poached salmon, gefilte fish balls, egg-and-onion, cheeses…
…I could go on and very often I do go on.
Talking of which, the talking is as much a central part of the evening as the eating. The conversation covered all manner of subjects, ranging from topical politics, to new media and Cheryl Cole. I must admit I was very weak on the latter subject. I blame The Economist, which seems to pay that pivotal icon of our times ridiculously little regard. I should consider cancelling my subscription.
But I digress.
Jacquie and Hilary set about a concerted lobbying campaign on behalf of the schmaltz herring, in a flagrant attempt to influence the judging.
“Mmmm, the Schmaltz Herring is especially yummy this year, don’t you think?
…and…
The Bismark Herring is very good, but not like the Schmaltz
…and…
The Sweet Herring is not quite a subtle as last time, is it?
…and…
The Swedish you say, Melody? Do you really think so? Nice, but a little bland, no?
You get the picture. My bloody-mindedness gene, which easily comes to the fore in such circumstances (it’s family, I can talk about this openly) was straining to award the coveted prize to anything other than the Schmaltz Herring.
The problem was, though, that this year the Schmaltz Herring really was exceptional in my opinion too. The Swedish, a new entrant this time, perhaps by dint of the event taking place late in the year, was extremely, indeed unexpectedly good – a very well-rounded flavour of herring – but not quite as exceptional.
So, after explaining the rules to the uninitiated (delicacies such as chopped herring and herring in sour cream have lifetime achievement awards, as does Jacquie herself of course, but it is only the unadulterated herrings that get judged in competition) – the results:
Highly Commended: Swedish Herring – superb effort from a new entrant
International Herring Award: Schmaltz Herring – utterly exceptional this time
Winners: everyone who attended – it was a lovely evening, as always.
Many, many thanks, Jacquie.
Give it up one more time for the Schmaltz Herring…what little is left of it.
And finally, one more (weirdly-shaped) picture of the smörgåsbord, courtesy of Hils. Thanks Hils.
One of the great things about being friends with someone like Rohan Candappa is that you get to see some of his creative pieces while they are works in progress.
…but not so far back that the term “back in the day” didn’t even exist…
…Rohan told me about a short performance piece he was working on, working title “The Last Man Cave”, which was about going to the barber’s. That idea would sound like complete rubbish coming from most people, but coming from Rohan, I guessed that he was onto something eentertaining.
Rohan also asked me to look at a short fragment of a female performance piece he had worked on with the actress Lydia Leonard, which he had given the working title “Pigeons” and had filmed:
I thought there was real merit in that fragment.
Rohan agreed and told me that he had expanded it into a complete but short work, working title: ‘And You Are?’, which he planned to have performed alongside his comedic barber’s piece.
Don’t be put off by the title “Trailer long” in the above trailer – it’s 74 seconds long.
That’s not long.
My hair is long…
…but that’s because I have an aversion to going to the barbers – an aversion formed when I was very small – a story for another time. Rohan’s barbers and bars stories are far more interesting than mine.
Based on the preview I, together with a few other lucky people, saw at the Gladstone Arms in November, One Starts in a Barber’s. One Starts in a Bar. is a really good show. It’s funny, sad and thought-provoking in equal measure.
28 September 2018 – Dinner With Deni, Tony, John & Kathleen
Early evening was my last game of real tennis at The Queen’s Club in my capacity as an MCC refugee:
Photo of me at Queens (from a different day) with opponents cut/airbrushed out
A fierce battle, it was, with a gentleman way above my pay grade, but through the wonders of the handicapping system we had a close fought match, which ended as a draw.
I thought 20 minutes would be more than enough time to get a couple of miles down the road to Deni & Tony’s house, but I hadn’t counted on the Friday night traffic combining with an accident nearby.
Yet, I arrived at the same time as Daisy, coming from the opposite direction and we really weren’t that late.
Plenty of time for drinks and nibbles before dinner.
Deni had gone to town in the kitchen, with a gazpacho soup and a salmon dish as the main. Desert was their favourite; profiteroles – it happens to be one of Daisy’s favourites too.
Tucking in good and proper
Lots of lively discussion too, trying to put the world to rights. John’s moderate views were somewhat tempered by his opinion that the only feasible route back to sensible, moderate politics might be barricades and politicians up against the wall and shot.
Everyone was on good form despite it being Friday evening and we were all surprised when the Cinderella hour struck and we said our goodbyes.
2 October 2018 Jamming Session & Dinner With DJ
Coincidentally I played real tennis (now back at Lord’s) before my next evening out; a jamming session with DJ at DJ’s place.
As I had all my tennis gear in tow as well, I decided to forego the electric instrument (which had sort-of been the plan), taking my baroq-ulele instead.
Electric-ulele – not selected for this match in the end
We tried amplifying the baroq-ulele for a while, which sounded rather interesting actually. We also mucked around with the strange assortment of songs I’ve been working on; then mucked around with a few of our favourites.
We still cannot decide which of us is ground control and which of us is Major Tom. It shouldn’t be that complicated, but it certainly is.
As always, we had a good chat and ate some good food too. An interesting bottle of Croatian red wine too – that worked wonders on my vocal chords.
4 October 2018 – Ivan Shakespeare Memorial Dinner
It’s been a while since we had an Ivan Shakespeare dinner – this one had been rescheduled more often than a routine visit by a British Gas engineer. But at least an Ivan Shakespeare dinner is pleasant and worth the effort.
Actually not much effort for me. Jasmine had suggested we try Bill’s in Kensington, which, frankly, is a hugely convenient option for at least two of us; me and Jasmine. In truth, many of us are starting to find Cafe Rogues tedious, in terms of the food (ordinary), the service (poor) and the tedious, Byzantine rules for Christmas gatherings.
A great turnout this time, a dozen of us, including some new-old faces, such as Emma, Nelson, Neil and Sam. Plus many of the usual suspects. I mostly got to chat with Jonny Hurst, Barry Grossman, Mark Keagan and Nelson at my end of the table.
What, no quiz?
For sure the food and service was better at Bill’s. The traditional “food half an hour later than everyone else’s” game for baiting Jonny Hurst is clearly just a Cafe Rouge Holborn thing; not a standard entertainment in all restaurants. Who knew?
John Random made an executive decision that the traditional quiz would not quite work with the ambiance – we were in a very central table position.
We are all keenly awaiting Graham Robertson’s “would I lie to you?” game, but we’re starting to think that he has sold our stories for megabucks to television syndicates in the Stans and has now fled the country with his ill-gotten gains. We don’t care, we’re having a great time at these dinners without Graham and his game anyway.
Seriously, I always enjoy these gatherings and others must also do so because so many of us have been coming back for more, several times a year, since not long after the turn of the century.
By the weekend, all the alterations were ready, so we ventured, on the Sunday, to Cavendish Square to collect the clobber, take it to the flat and clear out some of my old gear.
The items identified for the chop included, among many other things, a pink stripped shirt which was showing signs of wear and a pair of green corduroy trousers of seriously discernible vintage and wear. The charity shop seemed grateful for all.
Sartorially Antiquated?
Point is, I realised that those items, when combined with my purple Massimo Dutti jumper (not for the chop – there must be decades of use left in that garment)…
…were the very togs I wore on one of my last visits to see mum before she died – a visit that yielded one of my favourite anecdotes about that difficult time.
It was late December 2014. Mum had pretty much been unconscious throughout my previous couple of visits, including Christmas Day, when I visited together with Janie.
I was working at home between Christmas and New Year. One morning, I think the 28th or 29th December, when I called the hospital for my daily update, the nurse, rather surprisingly, said that mum seemed much better that morning and was sitting up and talking.
I asked if I could come and visit, despite the fact that it was not visiting hours, as she had been unconscious on my previous visits and I would like to catch a conscious phase if I could. The nurse asked how far away I was and, when i told her, said that I should set off straight away, to get there and have some time with mum ahead of the lunchtime rounds.
So I hurriedly threw on the purple jumper over my “schlock around working at home” pink shirt and green chords, then sped off in Dumbo towards St Georges.
When I got to the ward, mum was indeed sitting up and conscious. “Hello darling,” she said – immediate recognition although she had adopted terms like “darling” and “honey” about a year earlier, once the dementia had eaten away at her memory for names.
Then she looked me up and down, frowning.
“Oh dear, that jumper does not go with that shirt and those trousers. And couldn’t you even have brushed your hair before coming to see me? Oh dear.”
Yes, even on her death bed, with dementia ravaging her mind, my mum could still form a judgment on my appearance and dole out a tongue-lashing if she so desired.
It might sound strange, but it is one of my most abiding memories of mum; that exchange was quintessentially her.
Well ahead of time, DJ invited us to lunch at The Orange in Belgravia/Pimlico. We had been looking forward to the day for much of the summer.
We weren’t disappointed for sure. It is always good to see DJ, Kim & Micky. As it turned out, it was a beautiful late-summer’s day, sitting in a very airy, well-spaced restaurant upstairs.
None of us had eaten in the restaurant there before, although Micky had previously been to the pub. We were all most impressed by the food the wines and the service. Janie and I both majored on the Sunday roast beef with all the trimmings, as did DJ.
Kim and Micky furnished me with a thoughtful bespoke birthday card and gifts, one of which was a tee-shirt emblazoned with the same legend as the card:
DJ, Kim and Micky told us about the Dalmatian coast, which they had recently been exploring. We pondered the lack of Dalmatian dogs in Dalmatia and wondered whether a themed boutique hotel, Villa De Vil, might be a winner. I expect Dodie Smith’s estate might have a question or three to ask about that one.
We didn’t realise that there is a glorious upstairs terrace at the back of The Orange, acting as a sun trap in the late afternoon. But under the guidance of excellent, interesting and kind waiter Gareth, we took up residence out there for after dinner drinks and to carry on chatting.
On learning that there is no house guitar, we tried some a capella singing…very badly.
Gareth was not only a maestro at serving food & drink, he is also a selfie maestro. The photograph below, achieved without a selfie-stick, is clearly the act of an experienced, steady hand.
Gareth also took a few pictures in a more regular or old-fashioned style, with the photographer excluded. A couple of those are shown below.
Many hours passed. It got dark. Eventually (at 21:00), the terrace had to close for regulatory/licensing reasons. Janie and I decided to call it quits at that juncture, leaving DJ, Kim & Micky to have “one for the road” by relocating to the pub’s outdoor seating, by the road.
The weather was much improved again today; yesterday was a weather blip. So we played tennis again at Leith Links in the morning.
Then off to have lunch at Marie and Joe’s new apartment in the south of Edinburgh, not too far from Summerhall and The Meadows. It took just over 45 minutes to get there door to door with a change of bus.
Janie insisted on taking some pictures along the way
We had a guided tour of the new place, including the new kitchen and en suite bathroom, which we were thus seeing before Linda Cook gets to see them; which is sure to be a source of much consternation.
Joe cooked a rather wonderful fish pie as the centrepiece of the lunch. We had a cherry roularde and some cheeses to follow, so that was us pretty much sorted for food today. Nice wines too.
It was really good to see Marie and Joe in their new home environment; when I saw them in Edinburgh last year…
We had some very interesting conversation about the festival, Edinburgh generally, politics generally, death, siblings, niblings, isms and anti-isms. You get the idea.
When lunch came to a natural end, I announced that I wanted to seek some indoor tennis shoes from Bruntsfield Sports in Morningside on our way back to Edinburgh. Marie and Joe volunteered to walk off lunch with us and chat some more.
It turned out that Bruntsfield Sports in Morningside doesn’t do those shoes; it is their branch at David Lloyd that sells them.
Still, we were by then near a convenient bus stop for central Edinburgh, so said a fond goodbye to Marie & Joe while stepping onto a bus to Princes Street.
We sought out the Apple Store on Princes Street in a vain attempt to get Daisy’s iPhone re-batteried (takes hours, we’ll need to do that in London). But I did procure the very iPad keyboard upon which I am typing right now, which should make my travelling blogs easier to write (i.e. wordier) in future.
On the way to Apple I spotted a show, Let’s Talk About Porn, at C, which looked interesting; a troupe of youngsters and plenty of time to faff around at Apple. Once I realised that’s we needed very little faffing time at Apple, I spotted another performance, The Roots Of The Blues, near to the C show (theSpaceTriplex) and just about enough time to pick up the tickets and fit both shows in.
So we ended up doing the very thing we promised we wouldn’t do; ran around like mad things fitting in a couple of shows at near-breakneck pace.
Both shows were worth it. The Roots Of The Blues was a mix of lecture and performance by Toby Mottershead. Charming, informative and he’s also a very able guitar player/blues singer. Toby’s slide guitar playing was exceptional and a new live experience for me and Janie.
Then up to C for the play Let’s Talk About Porn. This was a verbatim theatre piece, performed in a physical style by a very young troupe. “Sadly” we didn’t see the dour bar-tenders at the upstairs bar, but we did grab some water and did see the Flamenco duo from the previous evening sitting around before and after the play.
The play was good; we’d seen a fair bit of material on this topic before but it was an innovative, thoughtful, physical and interesting piece.
Then home, where we fancied little food and no booze – so we relaxed with just some toast and juice. Daisy managed to set off the smoke alarm by burning some toast – mercifully those things switch them selves off quite quickly and it was still reasonably early when that happened!
Escamillo Escapillo has, of late, expressed a preference for seeing the first day of a test match. That was not too difficult for me to arrange this time around, knowing his preference in advance.
Of course, he didn’t express a preference for “one of those test match days that ends up being rained off in its entirety but that keeps you in suspense for much of the day, because the rain is light and might just stop”. But that’s what we got.
Ironic weather this, given the weeks and weeks of relentless heat and sunshine that led up to the start of the Lord’s test.
King Cricket lampooned the day, while it was happening, with this piece:
Nigel’s take on the same non-event, linked at the end of the above piece, is one of the finest guest pieces on Ogblog.
Naturally Escamillo Escapillo & I tried to make the most of it, which is not too hard to achieve with one of my picnics to hand. Posh Italian nibbles from Speck and a start on the very jolly bottle of Pinot Gridge courtesy of Escamillo Escapillo. Smoked salmon bagels and latterly prosciutto rolls helped us to get through the wine and warm our increasingly “resigned to the elements” hearts.
We had occasional “it looks like it is brightening up over there” moments but in truth Accuweather left us in no doubt that the intervals between showers were to be short and the showers long.
I think it was about 17:00 before the umpires bowed to the inevitable and we went our separate ways home.
Friday 10 August 2018
The forecast only looked a tiny bit better for DJ’s day. Still, I went through my picnic preparations and got to Lord’s quite early, watching tennis for a while. DJ texted me to say he expected to arrive around the start time.
When Jimmy took a wicket in the first over, I thought DJ might have missed one of the day’s major moments, but DJ came down the steps just after the wicket fell, excitedly telling me that he got to see it.
Just as well. About 30 minutes of cricket was all DJ got to see before the rain came. Then lots of rain. A bit like the September Test Friday last year…
…except this time the weather app warned us that there was torrential rain coming between 14:00 and 16:00; so DJ and I both bailed out ahead of that storm, with a view possibly to returning if, by some chance, the day were to clear up and they were able to get some more play in.
I got some work done – while doing so I kept an eye on proceedings. I also informed Daisy that I hadn’t drunk any alcohol, so was planning to drive over to Noddyland that evening rather than next morning.
The torrential rain was tropical style – the TV showed pools on the outfield – but then the rain stopped. An announcement came up on my screen to say “inspection at 17:00”;I guessed that meant possibly play to start at 17:45 or 18:00 – wrong! Play to start at 17:10…
…I returned to Lord’s, by jumping in the car and somehow found a parking space on St John’s Wood Road. So I got to see nearly 2 hours more cricket and finished my share of the picnic at the designated place. I did alert DJ, but he didn’t return.
Then, after stumps, on to Noddyland for a glass or two while Daisy ate her dinner.
Saturday 11 August 2018
Tennis first thing – I didn’t move so well despite the relative lack of sitting at the cricket. Massage with Lisa after that; much needed.
Then Ros’s visit. Ros is Janie’s very good friend from years gone by who has lived in Turkey for the last 25-30 years. We haven’t seen Ros for about 20 years. Facebook combined with Ros’s decision to visit Blighty reunited them/us.
Janie and Ros: reunited
Not 100% sure that this next picture is from the last time…but it was in Turkey and might have been the last time.
Mystic Ros reading the coffee grounds in Turkey, 1995: “I will visit you two at a place you will call Noddyland in about 23 year’s time”.
The weather was lovely, so we were able to take drinks and chat in the garden for some while, until Janie served up a splendid lunch of smoked salmon and Guernsey crab – the latter delicacy being a gift from Lisa.
Ros is an exponent of Bowen Technique therapies, which gave “the girls” a lot to talk about, while I joined in the conversation as best I could and kept at least one eye on the cricket.
Once the cricket ended, the combination of massage, wine and the gentle therapeutic conversation sent me onto the sofa and into the appealing arms of Morpheus.
I’m not entirely sure how much longer Ros stayed but I did wake up properly before Ros left.
Sunday 12 August 2018
Weather forecasts ahead of Sunday were not promising. I warned Janie that we might get nothing at all, but that we should be ready to go. Even first thing on Sunday itself , the forecast was aweful.
But then the wind direction shifted, such that the Thursday-like constant light rain looked likely to miss Lord’s for most of the day.
Daisy of course wasn’t ready for such a dramatic change of plan, so I jumped into Dumbo to get a good parking spot and get a couple of good (dry) seats in the Warner for us, suggesting that Janie & the picnic join me by Uber once they were ready.
in the end we got a super day of cricket in a very comfy spot with just a few short interruptions for drizzle.
Umesh Yadav continued to demonstrate his fitness at tea until the very last second
Nice people sitting around us, including an amusing gentleman from Oxford who had an aversion to the England team’s infantile nicknames and who seemed convinced (wrongly as it turned out) that Stokesy was going to go to jail.
We saw a great England win and then had the luxury of Dumbo just round the corner to run us home. We celebrated with a glass or two once we got back to Noddyland.
