So, to a wedding in Dorset.
Lovely day, blah blah blah, and the obligatory disco later. I was sporting a new beige linen summer jacket of a type worn on that day in that place by only 27 other middle-aged men. It was basically a trial run for Glorious Goodwood. In my head I was Fortescue Bothering-Heigham, a 6 foot four, eleven stone dandy, with lissome moves and a voice like Radio Four nectar. Or John Gosden if you prefer.
Revisiting the evening over dinner just now, Anne and I gossiping wildly behind everyone's backs, unpicking the details with forensic precision, I mentioned in passing to my dear wife that she may have been a little blootered, a mite boozed up, completely banjaxed.
She agreed, and admitted to looking at me on the dance floor, as I showed the younger folk how to throw a few shapes to Chic and Sister Sledge, and seeing through a glass darkly that I was actually Stynx, the Commander of the Sontaran people. Which explains the filthy, other-worldy sex we almost had later, I suppose...
Lovely day, blah blah blah, and the obligatory disco later. I was sporting a new beige linen summer jacket of a type worn on that day in that place by only 27 other middle-aged men. It was basically a trial run for Glorious Goodwood. In my head I was Fortescue Bothering-Heigham, a 6 foot four, eleven stone dandy, with lissome moves and a voice like Radio Four nectar. Or John Gosden if you prefer.
Revisiting the evening over dinner just now, Anne and I gossiping wildly behind everyone's backs, unpicking the details with forensic precision, I mentioned in passing to my dear wife that she may have been a little blootered, a mite boozed up, completely banjaxed.
She agreed, and admitted to looking at me on the dance floor, as I showed the younger folk how to throw a few shapes to Chic and Sister Sledge, and seeing through a glass darkly that I was actually Stynx, the Commander of the Sontaran people. Which explains the filthy, other-worldy sex we almost had later, I suppose...
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