Mushy peas and the gas bubble

I was still suffering, in a very windy sort of way, in the pub yesterday lunchtime and at lunch afterwards at ours. On Saturday evening, after that magnificent victory over Ireland in the 6 nations rugby tournament, and having only ingested one meal by evening, I was a little peckish and wondered if That Nice Lady Cooking Decorator had any plans on the feeding front. She dutifully disappeared into the kitchen and arrived back triumphant with a home-made (not by her) pork pie garnished liberally with what looked like the bright green, almost luminous, nasal contents of someone who had been seriously suffering from a bad cold, and had at the same time recently experienced a very dangerous dose of radiation sickness.

Incredulous and trepidatious (at that stage I was unaware how much that word carried portent for yesterday) I politely asked what it was. Mushy Peas was the answer. It seemed that she thought that as we had consumed the Irish at rugby, it would be apt to consume something else loud and green. It was very tasty, but even at the time of eating I knew there would be trouble ahead. Regular readers will know that the operation of my constitution is a recurring theme in this daily column, where I am often want to let off some hot air, often about the benefits of having an account with Currencies Direct if you ever have need to move money into a different currency. I think that kind of hot air is much easier to handle than the type and aroma I was producing for most of yesterday.

Having cleared the White Hart with huge clouds of noxious gas yesterday lunch time, we adjourned to a late lunch at home where I had that Methuselah of St. Emilion (not Medoc as I had stated yesterday, that had been drunk at the last luncheon event) waiting. Colin the Pirate and the Sultry Goddess Sandra texted to say they had forgotten they were invited, which says much for their state when the arrangement was made the week before, and chicken was introduced into the intended menu as a result, but all the more for us I thought.

Dancing on a Sunday afternoon… not sure about the Boy George impersonations

It all went very well and ended up with That Nice Lady Decorator and the beautiful Mighty Omega (or just plain Meg to those who are not in awe of her) dancing to popular tunes from the seventies and eighties, as my picture today shows. By this time, Charlie Pistorius Malcolmson and the gloriously exquisite Ali had wisely returned to look after their pub. Ali had been most distressed at lunch time to have been forced into serving at the bar due to it being so busy, instead of her more usual position providing eye candy for the locals on the other side of the bar.

So that is it for the time being. A diet day has been decreed by That Nice Lady Diet Enforcer as my bikini awaits me in Barbados in 10 days time. Cricket practice takes place for the Sussex over 60’s, or the Sussex Seniors this morning, where I shall endeavour not be bowled out by Lloyd, a canny 76-year-old who bowls whilst wearing purple crocs on his feet and wears an ancient cricket jumper that he must have had since he was a teenager. It must have been the subject of the close attention of hundreds of generations of moths to look that bedraggled. I shall of course be trying out my new bat, made especially for Kevin Pietersen, which I managed to purloin from my dear friend at Adidas (Ben, dinner will come soon with fine wine).

Chris France
@Valbonne_News