Muntjacs

What a strange few days it has been. I was mindful of the advice to be wary of those that one had only met on the internet, but am delighted to report that the 3 fellow bloggers I have met this week lived up to all of my expectations and were exactly as I had imagined them.

Has it really been a week? It seems like only a couple of days ago that I was with Tom in his Torquay penthouse. We didn’t get to spend much time chatting, as he was negotiating deals to expand his mining interests in Ecuador, and to reunite the Joe Loss Band for a world tour – you will be sad to note that he failed to do this in time for Glastonbury. I found the high powered business environment a little speedy for my taste – always some lackey or another dashing in with questions or documents to sign, but Tom, despite the frenetic pace at which he lives his life remains cool, without a crease out of place, and always wearing the trademark Armani gold tie.

Mark’s lifestyle is equally bewildering to me – we called in during one of his exotic dance routines at the “Pole to Pole” nightspot in Cambridge. I have to say that he is exceptionally supple for an octogenarian, and he gets away with those costumes in a way strangely reminiscent of Peter Stringfellow. We made our excuses and left before the finale – I don’t mind what people do, but don’t always want to watch it.

Then this afternoon Dave fell over my threshold, kicking a passing cat, pausing to vomit on the godetias, and complementing one of my neighbours on “her rack”. The street was then entertained by his pointing out a young lady who was, apparently, only a roadbuilder’s daughter, but she liked her asphalt. I was not aware that it was possible to obtain alcoholic beverages in North East Hampshire of a Sunday, but Dave obviously has a nose for that sort of thing. This is not a personal comment – his gigantic crimson proboscis is due, he assured me, although in a slurred manner, to hereditary factors.