Saturday 7 July 2018
I drive to Posh Town for lunch at a gastropub.
As I approach the centre of Suburbia Alta, I see on the right-hand pavement a girl aged five or six, in a pink dress and pink sun-hat, with both feet on the platform of her microscooter, effortlessly cruising up the slope. All the motive power is being supplied by her father, who is walking alongside, outboard, holding the handlebars.
I’ve made some gruelling journeys to Posh Town, but this must be the worst ever: I encounter multiple delays on the road, and the weather is very hot.
Over lunch, I learn that a married couple who are acquaintances of ours “have decided to separate”.
Dr LA(m) shows me a photo of his new-ish grandson.
When we step out of the gastropub, it’s like stepping into an oven.
We watch most of the World Cup quarter-final.
England 2, Sweden 0.
I put the milk back into Mrs SG’s fridge. The bottle bears a Pennypinch label, as do two other bottles of milk in the fridge.
As I walk down the road on which Mrs SG and Mr NT live, I see to my right a man who is probably in his early 30s, at the offside of his Range-Rover-like MPV. He is carrying his one-year-old son at his right front. Father and son are wearing orange short-sleeve tops. The boy, who is smiling contentedly, is wearing a white sun-hat, but the father is bare-headed. He thanks another man, who is also at the car and must have been the host at lunch, for “a delicious meal”.
On the way home, I stop to do a little shopping. My change is £6.66.
The journey home is as smooth and easy as the outbound journey has been difficult — this even though the traffic is not particularly light.
BLEKE 4 