We took a break from cycling and stopped off at a pub for a lunch. Since the bar was unstaffed, TPR poured himself a pint of a lager, and a half for me. Then the waiter brought us a dish of pasta, chips and broccoli. Before we even had a chance to lift a fork to our mouths the waiter removed the broccoli from our plates and dumped it in the bin. When I asked why he had done this, he told me that it was far too healthy for pub food. I was most welcome, however, to fish the vegetables out from the rubbish and eat them, if I really wanted to do so.

Then there was a sudden and urgent need for a Swedish opera singer. “No problem”, thought I, as I rifled through my address book to locate MM, a former colleague from my days at QM. “She’s Swedish, and she’s bound to know an opera singer or two!”