w.atching the w.orld unw.ind

“The heat rolled from the earth like the breath of an oven”

George Orwell: “Burmese days”

Ordinarily, at this time of year, we’d be on holiday with our lifelong friends. That’s because the two weeks would encompass his and my birthdays, thereby giving us a ready-made reason (as if we’d need it) to imbibe several glasses of fermented grapes.

But having taken our break earlier in the year, it resulted in neither of us celebrating either day together – a first for many years. In fact, I can’t recall it happening before?

But we’re getting together soon, possibly for a couple of scuba dives off of the Sussex coast (tides and weather permitting) and in between glasses of ullage, will be plotting our ‘boy’s week’ of fishing in Ireland.

He goes every year for an annual competition, but it’s ten years since I last visited God’s Own Country and since I last saw my uncle, who’s 85 and a teetotal bachelor (it must make it seem like a long life?). So it’ll be nice to pay him a surprise visit (again) – last time, two English voices at his door nearly scared the life out of him!).

Time to dust off the tackle, then.

Oo, er, Missus.