So opined the evergreen Mr Fulton whilst bemoaning the fact that he only recognised half the faces in the pub. Meanwhile, a quietly recovering Steve Martin and our antipodean cousin Clive L discussed the dangers of kangaroos – especially if they jump through your windscreen and proceed to disembowel you with their claws; and on my return to the more youthful corner of the pub, the spectacle of Messrs Winterburn and Bradbury pontificating as to the accuracy of assorted plane wreck grid references in the Peak. From the glazed looks on everyone else’s face, I was glad to have missed the bulk of this particular dirge.
It is only polite, I suppose, to report that we also went for a run; short, sharp and starry; and that we lost nobody of note (not even what the good cap’n some what provocatively described as ‘that elite runner from Grindleford’, Mike Nolan, who made a rare and largely cheerful guest appearance). It takes all sorts.
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