The world from my window

I went on the march yesterday. It was an early start, driving into Bridport accompanied by Tony Blackburn on Radio 2 to catch the seven o'clock bus to London, and then back home again at ten at night to Craig Charles's House Party. In the interim, my friend won a 'I'm one of the Liberal Elite (apparently)' T-shirt in the raffle on the coach and I acquired a Union Jack-meets-the-EU-stars flag as we waited for the march to set off. It was the first time I've been on a mass protest since 1983. In a country torn apart by Brexit, it was the most positive many have felt in a long time. Surrounded by people of all faiths, colours, creed, all united for a common cause. We, the forty-eight percent, others who have changed their minds in the last three-and-half years and those who, in June 2016, had been too young to vote. There were teenagers, old people, the middle-aged, millennials and children. There were dogs and unicorns, masses of drums and big, bold ...

Mr Grigg and I emerge from our front door into the Square. Next door and across the road, other people are doing the same, like a mass version of one of those weather predictors where the little old man with the umbrella goes in and the little old lady with the parasol comes out. We are on our way on foot to Lady Friend's house, The Willows, where the blogroll guest list includes Nobby Odd-Job, Ted Moult and Jamie Lee, Tuppence (dear, sweet Tuppence), and an unaccompanied Mr Loggins, whose wife, Darling, is on the London march protesting against the cuts. 'Good for her,' I say, when the arch-Tory Mr Grigg complains. We amble up the road with the lovely Mrs Bancroft, Night Nurse and Mrs Champagne-Charlie, with her husband bringing up the rear because he has a bad case of wind. We are treated to a sumptuous help-yourself meal in equally sumptuous surroundings. We could be in an advert for Interiors magazine. The first surprise of the evening is the rare sight of M...