Make way for an extended rant, and if you have just eaten or are otherwise feeling sensitive, aviod.
I can´t seem to shake of this bloody sleepiness/tiredness/weariness, which I am assuming and hoping is down to those bloody statins and Ramipril. Felt a little livelier yesterday, watched Man Utd v Wolves last night, got in after midnight, slept like a log, had breakfast, and still felt sodding sleepy. It´s not the exhaustion I felt before I had my heart attack, more terminal sleepiness. I just can´t wake up. However, it has only been two days since I stopped taking those fucking tablets, so perhaps I should give it more time.
Overall, feel in a bad mood, grumpy, low, feeling sorry for myself and about as relaxed after seven days of doing less than fuck all 24 hours a day as a test pilot on speed. Thank God, is all I can say, that I have another week to go. I always say that you need the first week to unwind and the second to enjoy, but as I say unwound I don´t seem to be. Maybe if I met someone who knew me, perhaps they might say: 'Goodness, Patrick, you are relaxed. Where are your trousers?'
Oh, I don´t know. Could do with conversation, but I don´t want one of those which consists of wall-to-wall platitudes and banal observations. And that would just be all I had to contribute to the disourse. And I reckon - possible unfairly - that that is about all I might expect. Mind, I haven´t yet come across any yobs yelling 'Oi, Manuel' to attract the waiter, but I have witnessed, only yesterday, a tearful farewell by one women who insisted the Spanish guy behind the bar who had been serving here for the past seven days was 'lovely, really, really, lovely and we'll see you again next year'. Like hell she will, it will be off to Apartamentos Naxos in Crete or somewhere where she will say the same to Stavros and quite possibly even fall in love.
The weather has, however, improved and although it is not exactly heavy sun, it was pleasant and there was a nice breeze. Spent the large part of the day lying on a lounger next to the sea reading, dozing, then dozing and reading, but around half three, I suddenly had a yen for a cake and coffee. Wandered off into the resort and found both, but yet again was horrified at how so many Brits are so obese. This isn´t just me being nasty. These people, many of them, are seriously fat, and to compound it, the guys wander round in just a pair of shorts, tits hanging down to their bellies and bellies hanging over their belts down to their ankles. Ugh! Walking tubs of lard. And everyone these days seems to have a tattoo. I spotted one, actually rather pretty, twentysomething on the beach with a huge, intricate tattoo over her arse i.e. in the small of her back which spelled out 'Robert'. Talk about a hostage to fortune. She´s going to regret that when, inevitably, she goes for a divorce. ('On the grounds of mental cruelty, m'lud. He looks like a tub of lard and expects me to be happy with it.')
In the next seven days, I think I might explore the island little. Asked how much it was to hire a scooter and was told 29 euro, plus it has to be back by 7.30. Well, that´s a little pointless, so I shall make do with busses and see what I can see.
Tonight? Well, I have been sticking to Spanish lager (rather nice) and wine with supper, so I might bugger off, have a shave and a shower and then treat myself to the first gin of this holiday. Trouble is, I tend to overdo the gin and wake up feeling less than bright and breezy as I a few times at the beginning of August when Gerald, Wei Hsui and Ann came over for the blessing at St Breward church. I do like my gin. Goes down a treat.
Have I cheered up these past few minutes letting off steam? Well, it feels like it a bit. Maybe a bit of a rant does you good. Tomorrow some women who has lived on Ibiza for the past 25 years is leading a walk into the hills with the promise of tapas in a village and, I should imagine, a glass of wine. Oh, at least - and for this I thank the Lord - there has been none of that 'traditional dancing lark' for the delectation of Brit tourists but bored young fold in costumes. But there has been some excruciatingly bad cabaret acts. I sat in on five minutes of one and heard the same old tired jokes and a song by some biddy of 55 dressed like a 25-year-old. The guy was her guitarist, tubby and balding. Their publicity shots must have been taken in 1985.
Last night, as I was coming in, I heard a cellist and a violinist murdering a couple of show tunes. Sadly, so far no magician.
Thursday 24 September 2009
Wednesday 23 September 2009
FAO Barry: Jewish slang
Hi, got to be fast because I have only three minutes left on this coin. Look up, or you might already know about polari, gay/Jewish slang. Example: NAFF - not available for fucking, supposedly what gays called straights at times. Kenneth Williams and Hugh Paddick built an act in Round The Horne etc on polari. Also a lot of non-gay slang comes from Manchester merchants. It became very trendy in the Sixties to become pseudo working class and use a lot of that slang.
It must still be raining because . . .
Sad to relate, but I was shortchanged about 30 minutes ago by the chap behind the bar. I bought a 1.90 euro small glass of beer and tendered a 20 euro note. My change amounted to 13.10 euro. Hmm. Walking back to my table I realised as much, but being an embarrassable Brit, I didn´t want to count my change there and then, so I marched off to the loo where there I counted it. I know I was shortchanged because I also had 2.50 euro in my pocket, but didn´t pay for my beer with that because I wanted to keep the small change to be able to access the internet to write this blog and keep you my readers (only bloody two of them so far, but fingers crossed) informed of the minutae of my sojourn here in Ibiza.
And what does recounting all that mean? Are Spanish barmen thieving scum who wouldn´t know goodwill and honesty if it bit them on the bum? I´ll have none of that. My tale and the time and good money I have spent posting it here on this blog mean just one thing: it´s still fuckin raining.
On a lighter note, my evening is planned. It is now 17.27 (5.25pm in old money) and at six I shall go upstairs, having finished one last small beer, have a shower, come downstairs again, have supper (no wine this time as I shall be drinking beer later on) then amble down to Cala Llonga town to a bar with Sky to watch Manchester United beat the living shit out of Wolverhampton Wanderers. And if, of course, I meet those two women and if, of course, the blonde one invites me back to her place for a minute or two of unbridled sexual passion, so much the better.
All of which should alert the astute peruser of this blog (Mail readers Steve and Doreen Smugg of Wincanton, Somerset) that when next I look out of the window at the local landscape, I shall establish beyond any doubt that it is still fucking raining.
God bless you both (the religous sentiment courtesy of two and a half pints if Ibiza´s finest lager. I´m not a big drinker, though in all matters bullshit I can match the best).
PS Barry, if you like history and reading, which I rather think you might, do get yourself a copy of Zinn´s A People´s History Of The United States. It is very well, written, very well sourced, very well argued and is, I should think, not particularly popular among American capitalists who will undoubtedly wrote it off as working-class, Jewish polemic. If so, have none of it. It is very, very good.
And what does recounting all that mean? Are Spanish barmen thieving scum who wouldn´t know goodwill and honesty if it bit them on the bum? I´ll have none of that. My tale and the time and good money I have spent posting it here on this blog mean just one thing: it´s still fuckin raining.
On a lighter note, my evening is planned. It is now 17.27 (5.25pm in old money) and at six I shall go upstairs, having finished one last small beer, have a shower, come downstairs again, have supper (no wine this time as I shall be drinking beer later on) then amble down to Cala Llonga town to a bar with Sky to watch Manchester United beat the living shit out of Wolverhampton Wanderers. And if, of course, I meet those two women and if, of course, the blonde one invites me back to her place for a minute or two of unbridled sexual passion, so much the better.
All of which should alert the astute peruser of this blog (Mail readers Steve and Doreen Smugg of Wincanton, Somerset) that when next I look out of the window at the local landscape, I shall establish beyond any doubt that it is still fucking raining.
God bless you both (the religous sentiment courtesy of two and a half pints if Ibiza´s finest lager. I´m not a big drinker, though in all matters bullshit I can match the best).
PS Barry, if you like history and reading, which I rather think you might, do get yourself a copy of Zinn´s A People´s History Of The United States. It is very well, written, very well sourced, very well argued and is, I should think, not particularly popular among American capitalists who will undoubtedly wrote it off as working-class, Jewish polemic. If so, have none of it. It is very, very good.
Feeling a tad guilty
The sun has made its first appearance today, and I have spent the past hour chilling out on a sunbed next to the sea doing fuck all. And my more relaxed state got me thinking about my possibly uncharitable description of me fellow hotel guests. So, might I point out that in a previous entry of wrote - and consciously wrote - 'scrum' not 'scum'. The 'r' is all-important here, and means that I can look forward to merely being regarded in some quarters as a prat rather than burning in socialist hell.
I have resolved to smoke another cigar. Yes, I know I shoulnd´t and that a blocked nose and furry mouth will result, not to say what damage I might be doing to my heart (although Barry insists that nicotine is said to prevent heart attacks and claims, rather more dubiously that the health service is sponsored by Philip Morris) but, damn it, why not?
NB Almost all the others here, apart from being retired folk, seem to be from the North. Why? I should add that I am better inclined to Northern folk because they have a sense of humour, unlike the idiots in the 'Home Counties'.
I have resolved to smoke another cigar. Yes, I know I shoulnd´t and that a blocked nose and furry mouth will result, not to say what damage I might be doing to my heart (although Barry insists that nicotine is said to prevent heart attacks and claims, rather more dubiously that the health service is sponsored by Philip Morris) but, damn it, why not?
NB Almost all the others here, apart from being retired folk, seem to be from the North. Why? I should add that I am better inclined to Northern folk because they have a sense of humour, unlike the idiots in the 'Home Counties'.
. . . remorselessly cheerful
Must be getting old. Although I DO like optimism and find pessimist piss me off, I also get a little irritated by remorseless British cheerfulness. Got them through the Blitz? Well, all I can say is more's the pity. Don't get me wrong, please, and don´t think me snobbish. I don´t look down on anyone for any reason except their appalling behaviour towards other (and I wish more Brits would follow suit on that score). What´s so bad about condemning vandalism, a baffling, but widespread British practice? But one of our freedoms is to choose what company we keep. That is surely not snobbish?
Message to Kate
Kate, less hope of a shag than you might think, and I must admit I am rather whistling in the wind. It was raining yesterday so texted, hopefully, suggesting a drink (I was on the ball enough to get a mobile - cell - number) but have had nothing in reply. By the way, can´t seem to find your email address. I was going to email you to congratulate you on your engagement. Could you send it to me, assuming you still have mine?
Who is the guy? I was following the progress of your dates on a new blog you started, but that has since disappeared. Get in touch.
Who is the guy? I was following the progress of your dates on a new blog you started, but that has since disappeared. Get in touch.
Well, they said 'till Thursday'
Wednesday, and a new day starts with an overcast sky, the promise of more rain and that remorseless cheerfulness and resignation which the Brits have sickeningly made their own. All this in the 'Sunshine Capital Of The Universe' as Ibiza rather boastfully calls itself in advertising material circulating in Greenland and all points north. What to do? Well, I could do what I did yesterday and carry on reading the very excellent and revealing (to this reader, at least) PHUS. Or I could catch a bus either to St Eulalia or Evissa (better known to British druggies as Ibiza Town.) Evissa is said to have an old town which is one of the original island forts and is very similar to Dubrovnik. St Eulalia is closer, just about three miles, and I could do with the excercise. I bought an umbrella yesterday, so that should not be a problem.
I word about my fellow guests. It occurred to me yesterday that being among them is rather like vacationing in Asda. That might sound unkind. It is not intended to be. For balance, I should also say that I would also be a little uncomfortable surrounded by Times, Guardian, Telegraph and Independent folk, many of home have unacceptable pretensions. The only papers available here are the Mail, the Express, the Sun, the Star and the Mirror. But to put this hotel in perspective, the food, although of necessity partly geared towards the unadventurous British palate - almost all guests settle for meat and two veg - is otherwise rather good. Last night, as one of many dishes, gravilax and squid were available, neither usually to be found on your average British supper table. There is also a wide selection of local cheeses, cold meat, very nice salads and bread. These are, perhaps, regarded more as hors d'oeuvres but, there is sufficient variety for one to be able to make a good meal of it. The house wines are better than any of the shite served as house wines in Blighty, so eating is better than this scrum is entitled to expect. Not that most of them would know the difference were they served up horse shit and chips.
Calm down, Patrick. Is it the rain? Am I despite my protestations, a little miffed that I might as well be sitting in Fore St., Bodmin? Hmm.
Did a bit of googling yesterday and found that Lipitor, the statin I have been taking, can also be responsible for tiredness and muscle ache. So I have decided to stop taking it. I was on 40mg which is apparently a high dose, 10/20mg being more usual. Why the bloody hell should I still be on 40mg? I am one of those who thinks the Western world is drugged up to the eyeballs, and possibly for no better reason than it spells great profits for the pharma industry. I know that sound like standard paranoia, but I was shocked, while researching Lipitor dosages, to discover that 'standard does for 10 to 17-years-olds . . .' What! Dear soul, a healthy diet is what they need, not to be junked up with pharmaceuticals. Why on earth are we prescribing Lipitor to or young people?
I have also stopped the Ramipril, and will give not taking either a week. If this bloody tiredness disappears, I shall re-introduce the Ramipril, no hard-ons or not, because they lower blood pressure and my plan is, if possible, to stay alive at least until Elsie and Wesley are leading independent lives. Wes is now 10, so that should be for anther 15/16 years and I shall be 76/77 (undoubtedly with reactionary opinions to suit). And speaking of Elsie and Wesley, I miss them like fuck. If only Celie weren´t such a pain, we could all come on holiday together. I know that makes me sound selfish and self-centred, but . . . Wesley starred in part of my dream yesterday. He was the age he is now, and we were in some kind of china shop with loads of expensive big and small porcelain, glass and copper vases and other ornaments. Wes being Wes, he was fooling around and knocked over a three-foot china vase. I caught it, so no damage was done. Then he almost knocked over three copper vases, and in stopping them fall over, I knocked over a glass vase which smashed to smithereens. It was on sale for $87 (no pound sign on this keyboard, though it might well have been in dollars), but I was told I would only have to pay $27. In the event, with VAT, I had to pay $35. Then we went off looking for the car. I had previously sent Wes off to park it, and he couldn´t remember where. So there we were trailing around the streets looking for a car I knew I wouldn´t recognise because I couldn´t remember what it looked like. Wes was cheerful about it all and didn´t seem to care, and but I was getting more and more alarmed because if I tried to get official help with trying to find the car, I would have to admit that I had let my 10-year-old son drive off to park it. Catch 22.
Later, because of all that (and we never actually found the car) I was VERY late for work, about five hourse, and had Wes in two because there was no time to take him home. Being late didn´t help my peace of mind and, bizarrely, our desks (although this was not my usual office) had been reduced to the size of trays. Odd dream.
But I´ll say it again: I miss Elsie and Wesley. I really don´t like being away from them.
Just turned 11am, and I must soon decide whether to walk to St Eulalia or stay here and make further progress with PHUS.
Not much luck with the shagging project. Texted yesterday suggesting we three meet up for a drink, but there has been no reply. Oh, well.
Decision time. I need some fresh air, I have an umbrella, so I think I shall bugger off to St Eulalia.
I word about my fellow guests. It occurred to me yesterday that being among them is rather like vacationing in Asda. That might sound unkind. It is not intended to be. For balance, I should also say that I would also be a little uncomfortable surrounded by Times, Guardian, Telegraph and Independent folk, many of home have unacceptable pretensions. The only papers available here are the Mail, the Express, the Sun, the Star and the Mirror. But to put this hotel in perspective, the food, although of necessity partly geared towards the unadventurous British palate - almost all guests settle for meat and two veg - is otherwise rather good. Last night, as one of many dishes, gravilax and squid were available, neither usually to be found on your average British supper table. There is also a wide selection of local cheeses, cold meat, very nice salads and bread. These are, perhaps, regarded more as hors d'oeuvres but, there is sufficient variety for one to be able to make a good meal of it. The house wines are better than any of the shite served as house wines in Blighty, so eating is better than this scrum is entitled to expect. Not that most of them would know the difference were they served up horse shit and chips.
Calm down, Patrick. Is it the rain? Am I despite my protestations, a little miffed that I might as well be sitting in Fore St., Bodmin? Hmm.
Did a bit of googling yesterday and found that Lipitor, the statin I have been taking, can also be responsible for tiredness and muscle ache. So I have decided to stop taking it. I was on 40mg which is apparently a high dose, 10/20mg being more usual. Why the bloody hell should I still be on 40mg? I am one of those who thinks the Western world is drugged up to the eyeballs, and possibly for no better reason than it spells great profits for the pharma industry. I know that sound like standard paranoia, but I was shocked, while researching Lipitor dosages, to discover that 'standard does for 10 to 17-years-olds . . .' What! Dear soul, a healthy diet is what they need, not to be junked up with pharmaceuticals. Why on earth are we prescribing Lipitor to or young people?
I have also stopped the Ramipril, and will give not taking either a week. If this bloody tiredness disappears, I shall re-introduce the Ramipril, no hard-ons or not, because they lower blood pressure and my plan is, if possible, to stay alive at least until Elsie and Wesley are leading independent lives. Wes is now 10, so that should be for anther 15/16 years and I shall be 76/77 (undoubtedly with reactionary opinions to suit). And speaking of Elsie and Wesley, I miss them like fuck. If only Celie weren´t such a pain, we could all come on holiday together. I know that makes me sound selfish and self-centred, but . . . Wesley starred in part of my dream yesterday. He was the age he is now, and we were in some kind of china shop with loads of expensive big and small porcelain, glass and copper vases and other ornaments. Wes being Wes, he was fooling around and knocked over a three-foot china vase. I caught it, so no damage was done. Then he almost knocked over three copper vases, and in stopping them fall over, I knocked over a glass vase which smashed to smithereens. It was on sale for $87 (no pound sign on this keyboard, though it might well have been in dollars), but I was told I would only have to pay $27. In the event, with VAT, I had to pay $35. Then we went off looking for the car. I had previously sent Wes off to park it, and he couldn´t remember where. So there we were trailing around the streets looking for a car I knew I wouldn´t recognise because I couldn´t remember what it looked like. Wes was cheerful about it all and didn´t seem to care, and but I was getting more and more alarmed because if I tried to get official help with trying to find the car, I would have to admit that I had let my 10-year-old son drive off to park it. Catch 22.
Later, because of all that (and we never actually found the car) I was VERY late for work, about five hourse, and had Wes in two because there was no time to take him home. Being late didn´t help my peace of mind and, bizarrely, our desks (although this was not my usual office) had been reduced to the size of trays. Odd dream.
But I´ll say it again: I miss Elsie and Wesley. I really don´t like being away from them.
Just turned 11am, and I must soon decide whether to walk to St Eulalia or stay here and make further progress with PHUS.
Not much luck with the shagging project. Texted yesterday suggesting we three meet up for a drink, but there has been no reply. Oh, well.
Decision time. I need some fresh air, I have an umbrella, so I think I shall bugger off to St Eulalia.
Monday 21 September 2009
Rain, rain, go to Spain - well, it did and is here to stay until Thursday
Breezy, mild and slightly overcast yesterday with the possibility of rain. After carrying on with the very excellent A People´s History Of The United States (from now on PHUS), I took myself off to the centre of Cala Llonga to find The Tobacconist to buy some cigars and then to find a bar with Sky to watch Man U v Man City. (Man U did the business, winning 3-2 in the 97th minute. The extra time was odd because there were no hold-ups to speak of. In a minute I shall log into the papers to see what the pundits make of the matter.)
It was spitting rain when I left the hotel and I bought an umbrella as soon as I hit town. Ten minutes later is was raining properly, five minutes after that is was simply tipping down and did so for what seemed like 30 more minutes. It did stop, but we had a hell of a thunder storm in the night and Cala Llonga this morning now looks more like Dudley, West Midlands, than sunny Ibiza. But who cares? I have Howard Zinn to keep me company and absolutely fuck all obligations, duties, tasks or deadlines. Not feeling particularly relaxed yet and I hopelessly tires all the time, but . . .
At the bar met Jo (36) and Claire (35). It might well be Clare or, this being a modern age, Klare - these things are now fully permissible and anyone who objects to the progress and the personal right of any and everyone to spell their name exactly as they damn please should be prosecuted in Her Majesty´s courts and thoroughly ashamed of themselves to boot.
Jo was the football enthusiast and sat and chatted to them for several hours. She is months out of an eight-year relationship, is originally from Wolverhampton, but now live in Leeds and works as a recruitment officer. Clare (Klare? See above) works in online advertising and is originally from Leeds but lives in Birmingham. They were at college together. They asked my why I was on holiday on my own, and I told them the truth: to get a bit of peace and quiet and away from my wife. My candour, I hope, achieved two things: 1) it is the truth and so the explanation didn´t involve lots of euphemistic guff, and 2) I Am Available should Jo feel in the mood for a holiday fling and be able to see past the rather ragged looks, receding hairline and unforunately spreading figure of this virtual 60-year-old. I go to the gym every day at work, but all that achieves is that I don´t look even worse. To be fair, I don´t look a day older the 59, but no younger either. For the record, Clare is not my type.
Found my cigars and bought five good ones for 6.25 euros. Had one, but, heart attack and all that, woke up during the night and felt guilty. My nose is blocked, my breathing seems more laboured, and my heart rate seems higher. This might all just be my imagination, but all other things being equal, I now rather wish I hadn´t given into the temptation to smoke a cigar. I did, however, enjoy it a lot.
It was spitting rain when I left the hotel and I bought an umbrella as soon as I hit town. Ten minutes later is was raining properly, five minutes after that is was simply tipping down and did so for what seemed like 30 more minutes. It did stop, but we had a hell of a thunder storm in the night and Cala Llonga this morning now looks more like Dudley, West Midlands, than sunny Ibiza. But who cares? I have Howard Zinn to keep me company and absolutely fuck all obligations, duties, tasks or deadlines. Not feeling particularly relaxed yet and I hopelessly tires all the time, but . . .
At the bar met Jo (36) and Claire (35). It might well be Clare or, this being a modern age, Klare - these things are now fully permissible and anyone who objects to the progress and the personal right of any and everyone to spell their name exactly as they damn please should be prosecuted in Her Majesty´s courts and thoroughly ashamed of themselves to boot.
Jo was the football enthusiast and sat and chatted to them for several hours. She is months out of an eight-year relationship, is originally from Wolverhampton, but now live in Leeds and works as a recruitment officer. Clare (Klare? See above) works in online advertising and is originally from Leeds but lives in Birmingham. They were at college together. They asked my why I was on holiday on my own, and I told them the truth: to get a bit of peace and quiet and away from my wife. My candour, I hope, achieved two things: 1) it is the truth and so the explanation didn´t involve lots of euphemistic guff, and 2) I Am Available should Jo feel in the mood for a holiday fling and be able to see past the rather ragged looks, receding hairline and unforunately spreading figure of this virtual 60-year-old. I go to the gym every day at work, but all that achieves is that I don´t look even worse. To be fair, I don´t look a day older the 59, but no younger either. For the record, Clare is not my type.
Found my cigars and bought five good ones for 6.25 euros. Had one, but, heart attack and all that, woke up during the night and felt guilty. My nose is blocked, my breathing seems more laboured, and my heart rate seems higher. This might all just be my imagination, but all other things being equal, I now rather wish I hadn´t given into the temptation to smoke a cigar. I did, however, enjoy it a lot.
Sunday 20 September 2009
PS to the guff about my hotel in Ibiza
On reflection (about three minutes worth) it strikes me that my readers, both of you, might conclude that I am being a little snobbish about my fellow guests. Well, I don´t mean to be. It´s just that we are drawn to the company of those who think as we do etc, and not so drawn to the company of those who don´t. To put it in perspective I am even less drawn to the company of that old snobbish biddy who edits the Salisbury Review.
The other important thing to emphasise is that I am SO in need of a break that I am consciously keeping myself to myself these first few days. I have also decided to take two weeks off because experience has taught me that one week is simply not enough, that by the end of the first week you are slowly beginning to unwind and need a second week to relax properly. Also the chance to relax properly was the main reason why I haven´t gone on holiday with my wife. She is a woman who could start an argument in an empty house, and I simply don´t have the stomach for that. I would love to go on holiday with my two children but that would not be possible without my wife. But I am planning for the four of us to go away next April during the Easter holiday.
The other important thing to emphasise is that I am SO in need of a break that I am consciously keeping myself to myself these first few days. I have also decided to take two weeks off because experience has taught me that one week is simply not enough, that by the end of the first week you are slowly beginning to unwind and need a second week to relax properly. Also the chance to relax properly was the main reason why I haven´t gone on holiday with my wife. She is a woman who could start an argument in an empty house, and I simply don´t have the stomach for that. I would love to go on holiday with my two children but that would not be possible without my wife. But I am planning for the four of us to go away next April during the Easter holiday.
A PS to an earlier entry
The magazine republishing Michael Wharton´s autobiography, or at least the first volume, is not called Slightly Soiled but Slightly Foxed.
At that do I said hello to Susan, Michael´s widow, and was then introduced to some old bint who edits the Salisbury Review. She asked me where I lived. I said North Cornwall. Oh, she said, did I know Lady Penny Wilson (or something like that). No, I said, I didn´t. Her wish for any further conversation with me died there and then. I was, she decided instantly, of no consquence whatsoever. Stupid cow. But there are, unfortunately, many like her in Britain.
At that do I said hello to Susan, Michael´s widow, and was then introduced to some old bint who edits the Salisbury Review. She asked me where I lived. I said North Cornwall. Oh, she said, did I know Lady Penny Wilson (or something like that). No, I said, I didn´t. Her wish for any further conversation with me died there and then. I was, she decided instantly, of no consquence whatsoever. Stupid cow. But there are, unfortunately, many like her in Britain.
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