Three city gents engrossed in a chinwag. The thee caballeros, minus the Mex hats. But good blether for all that.
Correction right away. Make that two city gents. Charlie Miller is well known around town, as is Tom Farmer. Myself, the interloper. The conversation, though, was honest and gritty over two well-nourished hours, while we put the world and its problems to right.
Towering above us, a Christmas tree high as an elephant’s eye. What we didn’t know is that Sir Tom’s big ambition – you thought it was to buy Hearts – is to see at first hand in Africa the mass migration of wildebeest. Charlie witnessed the spectacle ten years ago.
Charlie will tell you to keep his CM salon a credit to Frederick Street. In its previous carnation it was Droopy Brown’s, a quality dress shop. Droopys, the story of my life, the caballeros chortled,
Guess where we were breaking bread? First prize, a Meccano set. Tom rated the room’s lights ‘‘awesome, best in the world’’ and Charlie said they’d ‘‘gobsmacked’’ his grandchildren.
Off yer bike. The nation sighed with relief when Bradley Wiggins was only superficially injured, knocked off his bicycle by a van.
Mind you, Brad’s an odd-looking fella, is he not? He could have made a mint had he salvaged his trademark sideburns when he got rid of them. They ended up on the barber’s floor. He could have been practical and had them plastered onto my pate.
And these suits? Well, how else do you clothe a man with lanky cyclist’s legs and size 12s?