Refugee

This morning I had a long, pleasant and sunny walk with Django, and then I got stuck into watching Wimbledon and the TDF. A left mid-afternoon for a week up north that will include five days sea rowing off Lewis. We also had a call from daughter L, who had been getting edgy living in a hostel in London, and the atmosphere in the run-up to this evening's game tipped her over the edge, so she's coming home for a bit. 

After tea, I headed over to the Navaar to watch the football, safe in the knowledge that mate R would also be there. The place erupted when Spain got their first goal, and I was the only one to cheer when Palmer equalised. I just couldn't suppress my joy at such a fine strike! For a few moments there was hope of an England win, but then the cheers roared out as the second Spanish goal went in. Although it sealed their win, it also guaranteed that I won the School's prediction competition. At the final whistle I got a bit of friendly stick from the next table, and after a reasonable interval I walked out.

I'm OK with the result: England over-performed - as they did in the last EUROs - and the expectations of their horrible supporters aren't rewarded.

And, no, I wasn't drinking Tennent's!