Sunday, June 24, 2007

News from the Front.



At time of writing, my wife, daughters, and sisters - along with assorted nephews and nieces - are battling it out on the Western Front: Glastonbury 2007. A particularly brutal and muddy campaign, so I gather from dispatches, with a body count that doesn't bear thinking about. They're currently bivouacked somewhere south of Healing Fields, and planning a combined assault on the cider tent come nightfall, from whence they hope to strike out for the central arena once regrouped. Slow going, as each stage can only be reached by bog-snorkelling, and that under heavy fire from the dunny carts. Little chance of keeping your powder dry under such conditions - not that I advocate drug-taking in any case.

Ah me, I wish them well. I'd be there with them of course if I wasn't already de-commissioned. (Old head wound, Isle of Wight campaign, 1970.) Meanwhile I can only pace the battlements of Augarde Court, glass of port in one hand and a half-Corona in the other, anxiously awaiting further news. I've some smoked haddock in the pantry, and am planning to whiz up a kedgeree for our brave heroes on their return.

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