I met a Seff Iffrican woman called Cindie in the Maldives. Her hisbind, Givvin, was "in security". Givvin made the blockhouses overlooking the D-Day beaches look anorexic, so my besottment had to remain remote. It was remote by a 30 year age difference too, but a man can dream. And not that Givvin was nearly as dangerous as Home Counties convent-educated (mercifully she wasn't a great scholar...) Barbara, to whom I'm married. You owe this irrelevant tale to my love of Seff Ifrican accents, developed when I met TT winner Bill Simpson, from Rrhiddesia, and reinforced by my niece's partner Warren. Or Wirren.
Just above freezing today. The Vin sulks in the garage, planning how best to not start when the weather improves.
I wish all VOC members a Guid (dialect) and Prosperous New Year. And First Kick Starting.
My understanding is that Oz bragged that the Poms were dead in the water before the match started, and now that what they thought was a floating log has turned out to be an alligator, they've gone off in a hissy fit, whingeing, as they do, the big girl's blouses. Is that more or less correct?