O, Brother

Well Pete, I figured it should be the one with the capacity for abstract thought. But if that ain't the consensus view, then hell, let's put it to a vote.

I’m at Paddington in time for the 11:06 to Bedwyn. Last night’s winds have upset some signals, but the train isn’t massively delayed and we roll into sunny Great Bedwyn earlier than expected.

Mum picks me up and whisks me home. Jol arrives mid-afternoon, be-suited, returning from some opening event at a council business centre at Porton Down.

As seven o’clock, we head to The Harrow, over the canal. It’s not far, but mum’s shortness of breath means we drive. Sue, the proprietor, welcomes us like long lost friends. Which, to some extent we are. It’s a Michelin starred, taster menu, eating experience these days - a far cry from the community owned pub of yesteryear.

The food and wine are excellent. Each dish is laughably small, but as we polish off the dessert, we reflect that we’ve spent two and a half enjoyable hours at the table and our bellies are, in fact, satiated. Let’s not look at the bill, though. Thanks, mum.

Back home, Jol and I have a nightcap, listen to some tunes, and avoid politics.