So, my plan for the weekend was to record some music, buy and play some Mortal Kombat.
Alas, and hurrah, none of that was to be.
Tony was in town, not Cambridge-Town, but that London, so I gritted my teeth and ventured down. Though braving that London is a small price to pay for conversations of excellence. And such conversations we had. Both in that London and in Cambridge-Town. Because due to some happenstance, his accommodation for the weekend fell through, so traipsing back up the M11 with me was the order of the day. Hurrah! And it goes like this:
yakyakyakyak…time passes, belly rumbles.
TMtm: Here, must be dinner time (Editor’s note: I paraphrase slightly.)
me: Aye, must be heading that way. What is it? 5? Half five?
me: (in shock) Cripes and lawks, ‘tis half seven! (Editor’s note: I paraphrase our protagonist as well.)
Chat the leg off (or is that the leg of?) a donkey, that one.
Dinner accquired (replete with a bottle of white, yes white! wine), we settle down for more chat. So chat we did. Until around 10.30pm the phone rings, Cassandra, informing me that Alexander wasn’t well, and if I could moor at the ship of the Fens and pick him up. The aforementioned wine scuppered (or scuttled, heh) that plan, so home she came. But too tired to journey back, she stayed the night and left early.
And who knew that about the trespass laws in this Third World (executive) Police State? Not I. But it bodes well for a return visit to the nuclear bunker.
I forget that I am used to Caitlin, that her rear end is compact and needs a bit of persuasion to accept wide loads. And that her low profile can outfox some types. Cassandra has commented on this in the past, as well.
There is so much left untyped.
Roll on my visit to Eeklandia!
I refer you to the last line on this here page.
