Hullo, Justin here...
Whilst I am aware that I often begin my thoughts for the day with cricket musings, giving rise often to Mr Hassan (especially) saying, “Oh no. Not bloody cricket AGAIN!”, I think the England team’s current performance in the second test against Pakistan certainly bears mention. Having been soundly beaten in the first test, the England batters responded brilliantly in searing heat to post a magnificent total, then went on to remove Pakistani batsmen willy-nilly. Mr Hassan made light of the oppressive heat, pointing out that a great- uncle of his actually melted in the Great Drought of 1910 just outside Nagpur. His point evaded me.
My lady wife and I did manage to get away for a few days gentle brass-rubbing, driving ourselves believe it or not in our Archdiocese-approved Mini with the young man with the wire in his ear following closely behind in his huge 4x4. We headed first to Clittery Ambo, deep in the Gloucestershire countryside, there to seek the church of St Mabel the Marginal with its famed twin tombs of Sir Clovis Clitter and his lady wife Clementine. Disappointingly, we found the village overrun with young people clutching Smartphones, playing something called Pokemon Go. After a distinctly moderate cream tea at the Jam ‘n ‘ Stuff cafe, we moved on and not ten miles further stumbled across St Alan’s in the Midden parish church, a delightful 15th century pile. Sadly, it was closed, but the ever-resourceful young man with the wire in his ear called a colleague, the vicarage was located and soon I was knocking on its door. Unfortunately, the vicar, a Miss Eugenie Bone, did not recognise me and refused to believe I was who I said I was. Then she called the Police. You might imagine the confusion this caused. What WOULD Jesus have done? However, the attending officer did recognise me, called The Rev Bone a cloth-eared silly old bat, saluted the young man with the wire in his ear, after sneaking a look at his Glock, and bade us be on our way.
So, I look forward to our Autumn break, and some better-researched brass rubbing ventures although my lady wife has expressed a preference for somewhere called Ibiza – or is it Ibitha – which sounds distinctly foreign. We shall see.