I'm sitting in the second row, watching Ian Moss. He's doing quite well. As for me, I am just about hanging on to reality. It's been a good-sized couple of days...I had a mate down from Brisbane for the weekend. He arrived a few minutes after the main dramas with the plumbing had been dealt with. We'd been thinking about our upcoming odyssey for a few weeks, and it was going to take more than a water service emergency to dampen our enthusiasm.
First stop was the Cremorne, for beer and lunch. In the afternoon session we watched horses run around in circles. We won some money and, being the gentlemen we are, gave most of it back. We walked back to Millswood, exchanging shared reminiscences of our joint adventures. These were mostly untrue. We went out for a curry in the evening. We drank some fine red wine, which was largely wasted on a philistine like myself. Through bleary eyes we saw Wayne Rooney score the goal of the century in the early hours of Sunday morning. After a couple of hours sleep, I was chopping garlic, tomato and basil in the kitchen. Breakfast bruschetta again. Fresh coffee for Pete, multiple cups of tea for yours truly. Six Nations England v Italy next. A late morning coffee on King William Road. Grazing in the afternoon, enjoying a pound or two of the until-recently-outlawed Roquefort blue cheese. Another bottle of red? Why not? Down to The Garden of Unearthly Delights. Overpriced Beck's beers in the sun. Finally, it's us and Mossy. And maybe a few hundred others. I don't know, I didn't turn around once...
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