15st 6lb, 2.1 units. I gained something of a reputation for rudeness during my time at Cambridge, chiefly on the strength of one incident. I had breezed into a friend’s rooms after the bar shut and found him sipping tea or coffee with a group of people I had never seen before. Quiet, decent, Christian types they were. They weren’t part of my friend’s usual social circle and I don’t think he ever saw them again after I had listened to them for approximately two minutes, risen to my feet and said “Jesus, this is the most boring bunch of c***s I have ever met” before staggering out and slamming the door behind me. He has reproached me about this bad behaviour at regular intervals ever since. Strange, then, to find this same friend approaching me yesterday morning clutching the business card of my dinner companion last night, whom he had independently assessed to be the dullest man in the world, inviting me to make my “most boring c***” speech to him any time it took my fancy. Apparently the most boring man in the world had identified him as a kindred spirit and thought it would be jolly nice if he came to stay with my friend at his house in the country. Ho ho. Can’t think how that happened.
Mrs H, The Boy and I enjoyed a late lunch in a Cambridgeshire country pub yesterday, then headed home shortly after 3pm, on roads left wonderfully quiet by the World Cup match between England and Germany. We did not even need to turn on the car radio to hear the result. The sudden absence of flag-flying white vans after 4.30pm told its own story.
The amazingly unlikely true story of how a grumpy old man and lifelong bachelor won the love of a beautiful young woman and started a family – and all by writing a curmudgeonly blog about his lonely journey to the grave.
Now who would have predicted that?
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