Wood you believe it?

That’s it, booked. I am off to Brisbane for the First Test against Australia which starts at the GABBA on 25th November. Having mentioned it to just about every cricket fan I know, it looks like I am going to be Billy No Mates, and am going alone.

Mr Surrey aka Mark Gurdon, has arrived in the Cote d’Azur and has already finalised the minutiae of all his social engagements. I see from the listing that I have been emailed, exactly where I am expected to be and at what time. I suspect the wingco’s agenda has some very different meeting times on it though, as Mr Surrey would have to off set Spensley Time, which as we know is a unit of time approximating to 7 minutes, the minimum time (there is no maximum time)  of his habitual lateness.

I was determined to stay away from sheep today but the problem I often have is what picture to use on the blog, and at this moment my entire stock of photographs ready for consideration have sheep connotations, so I apologise in advance for today’s picture below. However, in mitigation, and to try to put all you sheep lovers’ aspirations onto a more normal footing, I feel justified.  Sheep are for eating!

Salted sheep, lovely, They should also be feeding them mint so they can be flavoured from the inside

I am feeling a little unwanted today as I have not, since the day before yesterday, received an expression of love for me from any brooding magnificent latin rugby playing chaps. I had begun to enjoy the attention. And so when the invitation from Mr and Mrs Surrey, who had just flown in from err.. Surrey, came early evening to do some quiet impromptu “square bashing”, then despite all my determination to maintain temperance, the sadness of failing to receive similar love notes, tipped the balance and I confess I weakened and accepted.

Just a pint of Guinness, followed by a pizza and a couple of glasses of wine. Some amusement was expressed at the exchange of emails between myself and the wingco over tennis and some logs that I had kindly taken away from him. Regular readers will know that the wingco claims not to have my email address. Here is the text of my last email to him, responding to an email he had sent me. I feel I can print his email to me for two reasons; because it clearly did not arrive, and because he refuses to read this column. How could it be received if he does not my email address?

His email;

” I am prepared to consider shaving something of the price. I’d have to be barking to palm it off for much less, but you’ve clearly twigged that by now. Ivy sily got enough for another load here. I know that you can be indeciduous at times, and that you consider me to be ever green, or even thick as a plank, but anyway we won’t go over that old chestnut again..

You maple another full trailer up my drive and take alder logs I have, as long as you cedar way to paying me for them.

I hope you don’t mind my plane speaking, but I think you’ll agree it’s only fir.

My response

“Although I havent heard from Yew, I hope you don’t think I have tried to Balsa my log store at your expense or else I suspect I will not be Poplar

I am afraid the quality of the logs I Teak is rather low, in fact I think one could say Dogswood, giving out a lot of Black Ash, in fact I did not want to Lumber you with them.   Douglas Fir, my Gum chewing friend from Canada understands logs, in fact he Redwood at Aspen and despite many Silver Birchings,  still holds an Olive branch for Eucalyptus College in Sandalwood despite standards there which Willower over time. Butternut dwell on this subject which hurts me a great deal, I am in Mahogany but walnut show it. I will get the hickory shafted tennis racket out tonight, and hope we will take the Elm on Thursday and make at least one person with doubtful northern ancestry unhappy.  I love to see the Scots Pine.

Small Mog (mahogany abbrev.)”

Of course MOG stands for mustachioed old gits, the name of the wingco’s and I tennis partnership.  I think my writing style may be a bit wooden

Chris France

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