The world from my window

Back home and the pub is full. We just about manage to squeeze on to a table for two after booking by phone on our way back from the airport earlier in the day. We've quickly learned that if we want to eat in our pub, we need to book beforehand. The Pub Landlord makes a face through the window of the kitchen door and I retaliate  from the safety of a bar stool  by drawing a 'heart' sign in the air to embarrass him. I once had an onion ring with my steak which I swear was shaped like a heart. I haven't stopped going on about it since. (In Greece,  my garlic mash arranged was deliberately arranged in a heart shape. Oh those romantic Mediterraneans...) 'He's told me to wind you up,' says the barmaid. 'Something about chicken fajitas being really complicated. But I couldn't do that, it wouldn't be fair.' And then when the Pub Landlady clears away, she says: 'The Pub Landlord wanted me to tell you he was really cross with you about you...

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...