Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Tuesday, 24 June 2014
Hot sauce and cold meat
I have been feeling a bit old of late, mainly because my neck, shoulders and upper back are painfully seizing-up - there's nothing like stiffness to make you feel old.
It doesn't help that I haven't seen my glamorous assistant for about a year now, and I have to pick up, carry out and lift up a 2 cwt block of marble onto a set of trestles on my own every day at the moment, or that I have spent about 35 years doing similar things on a daily basis. It's not as if this block is going to get any lighter than a few pounds by the time it's finished.
This morning, I unzipped the front of my trousers for the usual reason, and a moth flew out.
This, on top of everything else, has sort of set the tone not only for the day, but for all the foreseeable evenings as well, which is crueller than any woman may be able to understand.
I was a guest at the new Caribbean restaurant - who are our new neighbours - last night, and I opted for an all-female crew to accompany me as my escorts. Green-Eyes, her mother and H.I., her mother.
I will cut a long story short by saying that I just popped into the place during a training exercise (theirs, not mine) a couple of days ago, to make an extremely mild complaint about their hi-tech extractor fan - well, it was more of a question than a complaint, really.
The result of this was that the four of us were treated to as much freshly-cooked and smartly served West Indian food as we asked for, and at the end of the meal, the manager came up and covered out drinks bill as well. Sometimes it pays to mumble a slightly negative comment.
We were seated downstairs beneath a massive, open spiral staircase, and the seating area was bang in the middle of the underground medieval street that ran alongside the old city wall, which I have mentioned here a couple of years ago. You can still see the 17th century exterior windows in the now interior wall, even though they are partially camouflaged by a giant mural of Bob Marley.
Well, it shames me to say it, but as the girlies were chatting away amongst themselves whilst eating, my attention on the food was constantly being distracted by the servers of it, who were running up and down the stairs all night in extremely short, tight, black mini-skirts.
Now you may have a deeper understanding of why the moth flying out of my trousers this morning has had such a demoralising effect on me.