A Mouse In The House

Thursday, 21^st August

The journey to Wembley was slightly less traumatic than usual.  Having failed to book ourselves onto the special charter train, we got a taxi to Great Portland Street, and got on the tube before the masses.  I even got a seat!  I stopped along Olympic Way (I know most people call it Wembley Way, but I am married to the pedant from outer space) and clicked off a few fish-eyes of the great arch.  We went straight to The Wildly Expensive Champagne And Seafood Bar – my capitals, not theirs.  I scoped the available choices, then spent a staggering £39.20, on peeled prawns, crayfish tails, potato salad and gravadlax.  When I collected our food, the tab had gone through for a king prawn salad, instead of the peeled prawns.  Unwilling to get back into the enormous queue, to get a refund and re-order, I decided to do a little horse-trading with the chef.  He showed me his tab, and I showed him my receipt, the mathematical cogs turned fairly slowly, until he noticed the price of the gravadlax.  ‘Bloody hell!’  He exclaimed, ‘They’re charging £14.75, for that?’

I was staggering under the weight of the enormous black rubber tray (very fetish-chic), when a lovely waiter came to my rescue.  We decanted the food onto the table, and Troy went to get the drinks from another bar.  The mandarins who run Club Wembley, in their not-so-infinite wisdom, have decided that TWECASB can only sell whole bottles of wine.

We are about half way through our meal, when we were joined by a visitor.  A tiny figure shot under the table, run around my feet and off through Troy’s legs.  No, not Short Wright-Phillips, but a weeny mouse.  He then parked himself under a chair, clearly terrified of the humans.  Looking at the way some of them were dressed, I don’t blame him.  He then disappeared behind the bar, only to re-emerge periodically for another brief sprint.  ‘Oh look,’ I quipped, ‘it’s Peter Mouse.’  Or, ‘It’s obviously true that most of the England squad play for Portsmouse.’  Although I have nothing against mice, Troy and I rapidly lost our appetites.  Mr Moore went to the bar, behind which the offending rodent was lurking, and told them.  ‘Oh, really?’  Was the less than satisfactory response.

The family at the next table had a bigger grumble, they’d paid a massive £175 for supper, and whole bottles, and certainly weren’t expecting to share it with vermin.  ‘I came ‘ere to watch David Beckham, not Mickey Mouse.’  He growled.  He spoke too soon, in fact, that one and a half inches of mouse proved much more entertaining, than a whole six foot of David Beckham.

Today I realize that I have got far too much to do, work and socializing, before we go off on our honeymoon, on Friday afternoon.  I am in a pack-flap. 

Friday, 22^nd August

Dick and Mitzi came for supper last night, and Bradd and Rachel joined us for drinks.  Dick was delighted with his new birthday presents, and we had a lovely low key meal at Manny’s.  I was up early today, and running around like a mad thing to get everything done for our trip.  Shortly before five, we finally headed off to Gatwick.  I have discovered, that if your flight is stupid o’clock, and you are planning on parking the car at the hotel, it is pretty cost neutral to book into the Hilton for one night, and use the summer special parking.  At least it is only a four minute walk to the check-in desk at 4.40am tomorrow.  Urgh!  I never sleep well before an early start, as I am terrified of oversleeping.

I spoke to Xanthe tonight, and asked her how her ears are.  ‘Well, I can still hear with them...’  was the answer, everyone’s a comedian these days.

Sitting in the bar before dinner, I overhear the following story:  At a major international surgical conference, held in Chicago, a small group of surgeons are talking at the bar.  The German surgeon says, ‘In my country, we can take a liver, transplant it into a patient, and the next day he is looking for work.’  ‘That’s nothing,’  says the Canadian surgeon, ‘in my country, we can take a pair of lungs, divide them, and the next day, two people are looking for work.’  The Japanese surgeon nods slowly, ‘In my country, we take brain, divide into three, operate, and the next day three men are looking for work.’  The English surgeon scratches his head, although he works for the NHS, he is determined not to be outdone by this foreign display of expertise.  ‘In my country, you bring in one Scotsman, and the next day, the entire country is looking for work.’