Two Chaps Talking

T old love,

Oof. Just back from the tropics and I'll tell you something, it bloody well Ain't Half Hot Mum. Though coming from the Mediterranean coastal town of Bournemouth I was of course well able to cope with the sun. It was with a mere vat of factor fifty that I was able to spend sometimes up to five or six consecutive minutes in the sun. The dash from my room to the bar was never so invigorating.

The island we chose for our petite sojourn is well known for its splendid cricketers and as luck would have it there was a Test Match taking place during our stay. With the world's finest cricket being played not three miles away it would have criminal not to take full advantage. So almost every day I made a point of spending several minutes with at least one eye on the telly, obviously not able to spare both for risk of losing contact with the barman.

Y'know rum punch has many medicinal benefits. Prodigious consumption leaves a chap feeling utterly delighted with the world in general and his direct company in particular. Not only that but my erstwhile city-sprint walking pace slowed down to a dawdle, the kind of speed that would get one pushed under a bus here in the bustling metrop.

We may not have ruled the waves for a while now but I don't need to tell you that the ocean is in an Englishman's blood. And camped on the island where Lord Nelson built much of his Americas fleet it was only natural that time afloat beckoned. Naturally eschewing anything motor driven I began with a one man sixteen footer that threw me at the first hard a' starboard. Who knew you had to let the bloody sail out to slow down? Must've flown fifteen feet every time that bastard flipped over.

On day two of our stay she who must be obeyed decided the board of fare at hotel number one was not up to scratch and we decamped to pastures new. The good news was that there I was able to take on a catamaran. A gentleman's conveyance and much more civilised. I also learned that wind direction has applications other than the avoidance of classroom chums who've overdone the Brussels for lunch. The only fly in this ointment was the necessity of weaving, or tacking, between razor sharp coral reefs, using for navigation only a murky green buoy the size of a rancid tennis ball that I had trouble spotting even when on top of it. But you don't grow up in the aforementioned seafaring Mediterranean port without having sailing in your blood. So with the aid of numerous tots of rum I acquitted myself adequately and lived to tell the tale.

What with our greatest Admiral being so closely associated with both the Island and various Little Unpleasantness' with our friends across the Channel M and I felt it only right to give our patronage to a bijou French restaurant called Chez Pascal. And what a splendid thing that we did. A week without posh French food is seven long and desolate days no matter where you are. The only hiccough was when M didn't finish her main course, rightly saving herself for pudding. The waiter's face fell when he saw the half-filled plate. They evidently took their food very seriously for he asked, darkly. "You didn't eat the fish, was something the matter?"

The room fell silent.

I had visions of him dragging the chef from the kitchen and holding a blade to his throat.
"Tell this miserable wretch that you won't eat his food."
"Do it! O cut my worthless throat," the chef would cry. "If I cannot create food for these people who quite fairly beat us in the Little Unpleasantness' at Trafalgar, Waterloo, Agincourt &cet then I would rather die."
"Come, come," I would say. "We're all friends now. Entente cordiale and all that. Your food was delicious, my wife merely has a small appetite and wishes to save space for what I am sure will be a monumental desert."
Thus mollified the chef would return to his lair and continue his fine work.

As it turned out we emerged unscathed and full of praise for all things Antiguan and French.

And that is how you find me; cooked to a delightful medium-rare, dawdling along at half speed, pickled in rum, and with the callused hands of a seasoned sailor, in a sea-faring way as opposed to a hello sailor way.

The sun's over the yard arm so uncork some of the Captain's reserve and rub some factor fifty in would you? There's a love.

S.