Coventry's Finest and the Glorious Ninth
Mon vieux,
Sing Out Heavenly Angels. I finally talked the Trouble and Strife into one of Coventry's finest. She's rather a racy beast actually. The car I mean. In British Racing Green of course. In view of the Trouble's desire for something called safety I was denied the true gentleman's club on wheels from the sixties. Instead I find myself the proud owner of something that recognises the shape of ones key when inserted (sound familiar?) and wraps itself around one in a way recalled from previous assignations. Unsettling initially but within moments one wonders how one ever managed without it. How like life.
Alas the unfortunate consequence of actually enjoying the front seat is that it does rather interfere with ones liquid pleasures, though this will be short lived as the back seat is elongated for ministerial comfort and all the more inviting as a result. If I could only find the right hat and jodhpurs for the wife. The only sour note was struck by a neighbour who owns a Ford RedNeck. On seeing yours truly at the wheel he commented 'Hey buddy, you gotta better Ford than I do.' Very witty I'm sure.
I'm afraid w**k continues to be quite spectacularly dull. Travelling the world in search of adventure, or rather on a business trip, is fun while it lasts, but afterwards the dreariness of all things golf-related becomes all the more acute. There are times that I sit back and ask myself whether the number of stitches per inch on the placket of a cotton pique polo shirt is really that important. It is not. And yet this is the kind of question with which my day is filled.
The cricket bat recently sent to me by my new friends in India is now fully oiled and needs only to be knocked-in before I take my place at the crease. I seem to be genuinely interested in playing which is very odd. I had no interest at all in any kind of sport while at school and on into my years of debauchery in London. So why now I wonder? Perhaps I'll go off it when I finally find somewhere to play.
On a cricketing note I ran into Geoff Boycott in Delhi, you know, like you do. He was resplendent in a salmon blazer and flannels, quite the life and soul of the party. I confined myself to drinking the eighteen-year-old single malt and then puking it up again shortly afterwards.
And what of your gainful? Now that summer's passed and the autumn leaves are falling do you have any plans to use someone else's central heating during the day? I recall you were going to be fiddling with Delia, did she resist your advances or are you digging away at her coal-face? Speaking for myself I found my own recent period of enforced leisure just the tonic to get my right hand to write rather than its usual occupation (drinking man, drinking).
My literary aspirations were thwarted throughout the summer by our foray into the great outdoors and the ancient sport of tennis. Previously considered no more than a reason to wear Fred Perry whites I quickly noticed that your average tennis court features an endless parade of fit young things in short skirts who spend their time bending over to pick up balls and then stuffing them in their knickers. Quite an eye-opener, that, and the accompanying running around left one feeling fit, healthy and remarkably randy.
Next week should see the Trouble and I attending a performance of the Glorious Ninth. though there is the chance that she will be abroad in Mexico on some foolhardy commercial errand. In which case I have in mind a rather blousey blonde who'll do as stand-in. I've been trying to palm her off onto eligible friends of late but with no success. There is a surplus of the fairer sex here that you would not believe, if only I were ten years younger, and rich, promiscuous, handsome, eligible, single, charming etc...
And so my old mucker we come to the end of this weeks exciting adventure. It's no party here true, but we continue to find amusement where we may. The wife is as fabulous as the day I met her and I am still mystifyingly over-paid for doing little or nothing of any use.
Dominus vobiscum,
S