So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye

A week of bon voyages draws to a close at the St Peter’s Finger quiz evening where it’s also the last night for MC Wilco who, along with the man child, (and yours truly) returns to academia later this week. A triple celebration as it’s also the birthday of Wareham quiz-master extraordinaire, Taffy Adler. Thankfully, no Tom Jones questions but rather too many with a football theme for my liking. We plummet gracefully on the so-called connections round by which time we’ve lost the will to live anyway.

Last week I participated in one of the great train journeys of the world: the infamous Poole to Brighton run where the most exciting thing is trying to catch the connection at Southampton on another platform in three minutes. Most of the three hour trip is spent catching up on the pre-reading for my course. I reach the renaissance at Fareham and struggle onto East Sussex in the company of Milton and Ben Johnson. Good job I’m trapped on a train, otherwise I might succumb to a burning desire to wash the kitchen floor. They’re a laugh a minute that pair.

Bev is waiting for me at Brighton with Vicky who is sporting yet another broken ankle. It strikes me that these two are about as far removed from Marge Simpson’s sisters as it’s possible to be. We are in the tea-rooms, of which Bev is a world-class expert. Vicky mentions that this particular establishment has gone to the dogs….she’s spotted someone chewing gum. I am glad I threw mine away before we started out. We have cakes; a concession to the fact that Bev doesn’t eat. I realise this when we go a whole day with only the promise of a fish-cake somewhere in the distant future. I feel faint. Bev says she’d like to be a fly on the wall when I recount this. I’d like to see a fly on the wall so I can eat it.

A wedding party and yet another farewell to ex-work colleagues. Eight hours after the actual ceremony, which I missed due to entering the post-Elizabethan period at Burley, Carole still looks like a beautiful porcelain doll. We arrive at the country house hotel in a pale blue stretch-limo, already soaked in wine and free bubbly. The private guests are temporarily worn out from the wedding breakfast but we are looking for the action. An unexpected star turn from Paula’s belly dancing troupe goes down a storm. Then we take to the dance floor. It’s a suitably memorable finish to ten years with these friends as we stagger out into the Dorset air and fall into the world’s biggest taxi.

Last night sees a quiet meal with Sue and me on the point of exhaustion. We share a glass of wine and the talk is of Christmas. It’s only a blink away and I still have two hundred years of reading left.