So since last I blogged the world has turned and startling events have taken place. Much like the CIA spy satellites of legend I have drifted around observing from the peripheries. I have rarely had the chance to intervene in any meaningful way but occasional I got the chance to make the teas and pretend I was involved.
Here's the run down.
On the Tuesday before my last blog I watched a man post a bill on the hoarding across the road. I'd stepped out for a morning burn and was engrossed by his consumate speed and professionalism. Watching him there swaying in the breeeze with his brush and bucket I felt a deep desire to be a bill sticker, roaming the open road alerting people to the latest fabulous ways to be parted from their money. The moment passed and I returned indoors for another coffee and a few hours of easy listening to the unabridged recording of 'The Enemy of God' that the wife had secured for my birthday.
Later that week it rained a bit, you may have heard. Rising at around elevenish I observed a dark and brooding sky. By the time I'd made my morning eye opener and was moving to the balcony for the first fag of the day the heavens had opened. I keep a bucket on the balcony (long story) and past rains have left me with maybe an inch or two in the bottom. Friday morning filled the bucket. Unable to go out for a smoke I sucked on a Nicorette and watched the plight of the passing motorists and pedestrians as the road outside flooded.
As you can see the water was lapping at the front doors to the mansion flat and Bob, the downstairs porter and general dogsbody, fought a valiant battle to keep it out but his efforts ultimately failed. The lobby stills smells like wet dog. In the top left of the first photo you can see the poster I had watched going up that Tuesday.
The following day I met up with Lord S and travelled to "the 'Sham" for the Hot Lead event to be held that Sunday. Evesham was under a fair few feet of water but unlike some I remained warm and dry. For a more distressing report of the weekends events see Bill and Chris' excellent adventure and Bill and Chris's bogus journey. For me the weekend was one of good curry, good company and poker winnings. Hot lead went well and you can get a good idea of the proceedings (as well as some flattering praise for my forthcoming Saxons) on Andy's blog. Whilst the others enjoyed some cracking games of WAB I sat around with Lord S and Darren plotting the future of the Beast and my workload for the next three years. Honest. See, and you thought it was all done on the fly. ;>)
The Monday after my return was club night and I was booked in for a bit of playtesting on an upcoming GW release. It's all very hush hush so I can't say much more about it but Mum's the word and loose lips sink ships. This is not a clue. It was also the last night for Mawdslio, scouse chum who is off to sunny Swindon to start a new job and swap the London Gamers for the SAD wargamers. Cheers Chris, we'll miss you.
The rest of the week passed at a leisurely pace with a bit of sculpting and a couple of exams to invigilate. I had an appraisal on Thursday and apparently I'm fabulous, which is nice. There will not however be a pay rise.
On Friday the wife and I left the slightly soggy mansion flats and flew out to the Emerald isle for a wedding. Not being one to socialise outside my close circle of cronies I was filled with no little trepidation but the Irish boys and girls were great and a fine time was had by all. Here are a couple of shots. One's of the bride and groom the other is me and the wife. Can you tell which one's which?
Ireland offered, perhaps, the finest food I have ever enjoyed and I decided to decline not once. Great food, great company, great times.
And now I'm back. Safely returned and well fed at the mansion flat. I'll be getting back to work now so there is the vague possibility that there will be some new greenery for viewing in the not to distant future.
Today marks Lord S' official birthday. I understand that there was some form of entertainment revue put on by the staff at his modest London pad and I imagine a glass of two of very dry Martini will be raised in his honour at his exclusive gentleman's club before a night of feasting and carousing in the company of the girls of the Moulin Rouge.
Happy Birthday My Lord!
(Popular myth records his age as 226 years. This is based on an account of a duel with the Duke of York over the matter of three shillings and a Lady's honour. Official records are unclear.)
Sorry, there really are no greens this time.
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