I spent last night in the Blue Parrot restaurant with a posse of 20 people. We were all there as a surprise cheerio to Fiona who is heading off to South America at the weekend to join up with a big yacht and then spend 6 weeks sailing around the world.
Not right round the world in an Ellen McArthur way, but taking in the east coast of South America, Barbados, USA and a few other places. Sounds like quite an adventure.
There were a whole load of jugs of Margharita continuously arriving at the table throughout the evening, and very nice it was too. The chirpy banter was also flying thick and fast. Actually, there was probably enough Margharitas consumed for Fiona's yacht to float on and sail through Stockbridge, startling the locals.
Adhering to the philosophy of "If it's worth doing, it's worth overdoing", we sauntered across the street to The Antiquary bar and had an additional couple of beers/whiskys before retiring for the evening slightly the worse for wear.
I bored Jo with my lengthy tale of how I was a model, swotty pupil until aged 12, when I was given 6 of the belt for an offence which I was totally innocent of.
(I invoked comparisons with "The Guildford 4" and "The Birmingham 6").
What happened was a few people were larking about on a stage in the gym hall, and were given 3 of the belt for it. Because I protested my innocence to the last, I was given 6. The thing is I was nowhere near the stage. It was obviously a case of mistaken identity. The simmering sense of injustice turned me into a rebellious, disruptive little twat overnight, and my previously good academic performance went into a period of decline.
So you see, I could have been a contender, but I ended up getting a standard single fare to Palookaville. Tragic.
I feel fine today though. Remarkable. Quite remarkable.
