Pistols for two and champagne for one

Today (well, technically yesterday, as it’s the middle of the night now) was the first time I’d touched my computer since last Saturday. I think I was suffering from withdrawl symptoms, but things were just too chaotic here with the redecorating for me to even consider digging it out from amongst all the boxes and junk (should that be boxes of junk?!) to add any entries here. Perhaps just as well — I’m sure I’d inevitably end up waffling on about the US & UK bombing Afghanistan, and doubtless there are enough blogs out there that do that already…

Anyway, got well and truly hammered on red wine last Saturday night — to the extent that L and I were still up at 7am, drinking tea and smoking in the garden. We also decided it would be a great idea to get up early and drive to the other end of the country to surprise some friends. Needless to say, we didn’t wake up till midday, and we agreed to shelve our motoring day-trip for another time. We were left with two choices — a Sunday afternoon of crap TV, or one spent in the pub. We did try the flop in front of crap telly option, but in the end walked to the pub at about 2pm.

It was dry when we set off, but by the time we’d got to The Dove in Hammersmith, it was absolutely pissing down and I was soaked. L seemed weirdly dry, which was very unfair I thought. The Dove is actually quite an historic pub, with low, beamed ceilings, right on the River Thames, and dates back to the 17th Century — it’s claimed that Charles II and Nell Gwynne drank there (yeah, right — that might wash with the American tourists, but I want proof!). Other famous (proven) customers over the years have included Graham Greene, Ernest Hemingway (is there anywhere in the world that man didn’t once drink? Probably not) and A.P. Herbert, and the (bloody awful imperialistic) song Rule Britannia was composed in a room above it. The pub stands in a group of lovely Georgian houses (William Morris lived next door) and the front door opens into a narrow alley. Its other claim to fame is that it’s listed in Guinness Book Of Records as the smallest bar in Britain, a cosy 4′2″ by 7′10″ (1.27m x 2.39m). Which is where L and I sat supping Guinness, by the roaring fire, waiting for the rain to stop. Except it didn’t. We waited, and waited, and waited… and still the rain didn’t stop. Eventually we staggered out of The Dove, pissed as anything, five and a half hours after we’d first arrived. It hadn’t stopped raining (it was bucketing it down worse than ever), we’d just decided we couldn’t take any more drink.

It was at this time we found out that the bombing of Afghanistan had begun. So we went back to L’s for chips, falafels, beers and the Usual Suspects on TV, and did our best not to dwell on the news.

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