Fair shake, she’s a cracker to be at the end of a long year. Time to put on the dunking dags, plonk the carcass on the beach, and fuhgetabout the orchestra for a few weeks. Try to ignore the fact that the Coupe Mondiale is only 10 months off and I’m sweating on Dan to show he’s still got the bow magic to be first violin.
I’d parked myself in the dunes with an esky of brewskis on one side, a carton of Maketu Potato Tops on the other, and my first edition of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus behind the noggin for a pillow. Purrfect.
Just exactly how Lord Ted knew where to find me is a rare mystery, but up he wombled through the pampas grass in his floral beach baggies. He bent my ear for a full bloody hour about selections and rhythms, which was bad enough, but he also helped hisself to the pastry and suds. It’s enough to make a grown Shag weep.
Yours in slip slap slop