Contrasts

A lovely evening, courtesy of LeeAnne. Lobster buffet in the board room with plenty of good chat and then into the book festival to listen to a sickeningly well preserved Brett Anderson talk about his new autobiography.

He seems like a decent bloke and his background wasn’t what I imagined. Lots of amusing anecdotes about his Dad in particular. My favourite moments though came from the star struck Suede fans in the Q&A, middle aged blokes asking him about his exercise regime and his inky-black sartorial style. Special mention to the lady with the thick Glaswegian accent who had to repeat her question three times.

After that we popped into the Writers Room but when we realised it was all wine and canapés said a fond farewell and popped round to the Oxford Bar for a nightcap. We had made the mistake of sticking our head into Tiger Lily but the smell of hormones and desperation was overwhelming. The Ox was business as usual. Although the festival crowds and Rebus fans had drunk all the Deuchars.

Earlier I’d bashed out forty odd miles on the bike and then took dozens of DHL boxes to the recycling centre.

On the train in I got two text messages at the same second. One from Joe telling me Mo Salah had scored, the other from Ruby asking me where the Peroni was.

Ruby had cooked for Joe, Eve and Joseph while we were out. Which was nice of her. Although judging by all the debris left lying around she had been cooking for a dozen folk.

So our night ended with a kitchen tidy up and putting everything back in cupboards, the fridge, the bin and loading the dishwasher. Still, small price to pay for a night out together.