The world from my window

Late one summer Saturday morning, Mr Grigg and I - along with Nobby Odd-Job and Spanish John - venture out from Lush Places for an ‘experience day’ at Black Cow Vodka . It’s approximately eight minutes by car from the village, but we still manage to get lost, deep in the Dorset hinterland. “I thought it was this way,” Mr Grigg says to our good friend and neighbour, Mrs Bancroft, who’s agreed to drive us there and pick us up again three hours later. “And I thought it was this way,” I respond, pointing in the opposition direction. Spanish pipes up to save the day - and our marriage. He connects to the map app on his mobile phone, which politely directs us on our way. And then it blots its copybook by suggesting we go on the road to nowhere up an unmade track. “I don’t think it’s up there,” says a cautious Nobby Odd-Job. “We should just follow the lane.” Round the corner and there’s a Black Cow sign. At last we’ve made it - but with only minutes to spare. And then Mrs B r...

I was rather hoping Mr St John had left a comment. I received a text message saying as much today. But as he has only just mastered texting, posting a comment is too much to hope for. I can see it now, Mr St John (in long trousers) at the computer while his Lady Friend guides him through the process from behind. The London Boat Show was quiet yesterday. Mr Grigg, Mr Loggins and I bumbled across the rail network from Richmond to the Excel centre like country mice. We marvelled at ticket machines, the things you put your ticket in to get past the barrier and the variety of faces on the tube. We don't get out much. This became clear when a Lord Snooty-stockbroking-type glared at us when we talked to each other. I had forgotten that people become mute on the tube. I remember being on the underground in Barcelona when some musicians got on and had an impromptu jamming session. Rather than just enjoy it, my biggest fear was they would ask for money at the end of it. But they were just do...