That's not cricket. The South Africans were starting to make us look pretty stupid but we English had a trick or two up our sleeve. We had 'borrowed' some of Farrago's rain prior to 23rd of July and forced the draw. Britannia rules the weather.

Unfriendly food and natives in Ireland. One huge drawback of eating the morning and evening meals provided on the trip was that I gained 6 pounds in 8 days.
We stopped in Avoca, Wicklow the village where they filmed the Ballykissangel series. A prettier village than many but it has suffered a little from the commercial pressures of tourism. In the pub I was approached by one of the locals who sat on the bench next to me. She was obviously in a friendly mood and as she nuzzled up I had to push her away forcibly. Unfortunately she had just been swimming in the river and needed a rub down. The size and shape of a Jack Russell with the coat and colour of an English Bull Mastiff. She smelt as only a wet dog can smell. Yoga probably knows what I mean. Luckily I dried out in the sun before we had to get back in the coach.

Sushi rocks. For years I have avoided even the thought of eating sushi. Raw fish? No way. I won't actually admit that I was wrong but henceforth I do expect to eat it now and again (and again and again).

Romance dead? No, it's just me.

The roses were as close as I could get to the 'right' colour. They may not grow that variety anymore. A sort of pastel yellowy orange. The small buds were slightly more elongated but overall they were pretty close to the originals. There was only one bunch, so to make up a Baker's Dozen 'Another dozen in red please.'

The champagne. Exact match. Mumm.

Chocs problem, couldn't find any in a nice tin. They weren't part of 1973 but I like chocolate and she likes tins. I finally settled on a small pre-iced cake and a tube of pink icing. Calligrapher, I am not but the result was much more personal than a card.

Picked her up at lunchtime. 'The roses are nice. It's hot. I fancy a cold beer. Let's save the champagne until the boys are in town.' Fortunately George at the off-licence had a six-pack of Fosters on ice. So the anniversary lunch was swigging beer and pigging out on cake.

Being married to me for 30 years deserves a Nobel Prize. I just hope that roses, champagne, chocs and her choice of restaurant don't disappoint. She is keen to try sushi. I will acquiesce providing I get most of the chocs.

It's only after returning to England's allegedly green and pleasant land that you realise how parched it is. We may complain about the rain but we can't have that much because the grass here has that slightly greyish yellow sheen that tells a different story. In Ireland they have forty shades of green even in high summer and they aren't kidding, I counted them. We were very lucky not to be caught in any rain at all. The only two showers were conveniently timed to coincide with dinner and drinking in a pub. So considerate.

I may be an Old Hippie but I somehow never did drugs in spite of living in the Belsize - Hampstead - Swiss Cottage Golden Triangle. Alcohol gave me my buzz. Still does. One day a mate of mine from Glasgow persuaded me that drinking beer was bad for my health and that I should stop immediately - go cold turkey - switch to Guinness. I spent a week attempting to retrain my admittedly jaded palate to accept the taste of Irish stout. I failed miserably. Nearly 40 years on I have discovered why. My training plan was fatally flawed and stood no chance of success. I wasn't drinking in Ireland. The flavour must lose something vital in the transportation. So if anyone wants to buy me a Guinness make sure it comes with a ticket across the sea to Ireland. Otherwise I'm not proud, I'll drink anything. And while I'm at it I will definitely drink to the health of Nelson Mandela. The word 'Great Man' is an understatement.

The trip to Ireland was more enjoyable than I anticipated. Ireland is the last stronghold of proper pubs, real country towns, genuinely helpful service and good grass. It can't last, the signs are already there. If the opportunity arises, I would strongly advise a visit ASAP.

Off to Ireland for a week by coach. Will be eating as much as possible, drinking in moderation (unless my wife isn't watching) and won't be posting or even commenting, unless I have mis-translated 'You are taking a computer over YOUR dead body'. When we got married 30 years ago on the 21st I didn't realise that 'till death us do part' would have such ramifications. If only I can find an internet shebeen.....

Yoga also decided to get back to the keyboard after suffering withdrawal symptoms. She made the point that making mental notes for future postings was a difficult habit to kick. I must admit that in the past seven months I seem to be thinking a little more about what is going on around me. I still have difficulty getting my thinking onto the screen but at least I'm thinking.

Wimbledon is over. Thank goodness. I enjoyed the tennis but everybody can go home now. I won't have to barge my way through the visitors when out walking and the airlines won't seek cheap TV publicity by overflying my house (and Centre Court). Concorde rocks but the airlines suck.

So you're a steward at Wimbledon, charged, along with many thers, to look after the safety of the masses on the roads and pavements. They even hang a megaphone round your neck to help in the task. Trouble is it's early, the traffic is light, only a moderate number of pedestrians, the weather has been a bit non-descript and you're still standing in the middle of the road.
Boring, boring. The boss isn't around. Better check the equipment, (very quietly).

'The sun has got his hat on.
Oh hip hip hip hooray.
The sun has got his hat on
and he's coming out to play.'

Not a single cheer or handclap from the 100 people who must have heard. Life can be so tough in showbiz.

Farrago's back to her old blog. That is so reassuring.