The last calçots

Another bundle of calçots from the other side of the Pyrenees and the last of the season.

Bobby clambered up the Moulin stairs and emerged into the sunshine looking like an old shaman wrapped up in layers of scarves.  Chris and Diane arrived on their sticks, followed by the more agile Richard and Sarah.

The sun burnt off the entrées maritimes and took over the sky.  Bobby peeled off his layers and his face went red while the calçots charred nicely over the embers.  

Ju was looking for trouble.  A propos of nothing he'd drop the names of various dodgy Tories into the chaotic conversation.  The first was Liz Truss but the bait wasn't taken.  It wasn't until he said Jacob Rees Mogg that the Chris fish bit and then they were off, Ju reeling the line in and enjoying every moment of the catch. 

I found Lizzie in the kitchen dancing to Oh Bla Di Oh Bla Da and joined her.  She said 'why the bloody hell does Ju bring up politics with Chris?'.

My great uncle John Tubb once told me that a good night in the pub was one that you couldn't remember the end of.  I explained that for Ju a good meal was one that had an argument as the main dish.  But having been his mother for almost 50 years she's well aware of this and the question was purely hypothetical.