Yes, the mojo is working again. I’m back. From a month or two away. Say what you will, the man is a survivor.
Having survived three weeks incarceration in Edinburgh Royal Infirmary and, then, six in the Western General’s Royal Victoria I’ve been in a manner of speaking, through the NHS mill.
My nights in the Infirmary were shared with four Noddy Holders. The screaming abdabs.
The cake with the file inside never reached me, by the way.
You sneak out, under cover of darkness, and get back on to the streets planning to catch up with old acquaintances. Are they still on the planet? All of them seem to be with us, thank God.
Time’s the killer. One is pushed finding the time. I wanted to exchange the high five with some of the BBC alumni I’ve watched from my hospital bed. Emma Simpson. Presumably the elfin Emma has more pressing things to do. Also baritone Caroline Wyatt. But Norrie Rowan is still rampant. Still mired in rugby. Rugby? The gentle art has to be a mug’s game.
Guess who chewed the fat without the fries in a burger joint in central Edinburgh, the other lunchtime. Birmingham Harry.
Hadn’t seen him in a while and, thankfully, he hasn’t lost his Brummie accent. Nor would we want him to try.
Harry and I first met some 25 years ago when he ran a memorable Rose Street eatery. Today he is employed with a West End firm. A major asset, I imagine. Possibly a bit of an oddball, Harry. When we can we plough through a conversation without ever mentioning losing FA Cup finalists Aston Villa.