My dear Ouseph,
I write this in some pain.
Much to my surprise, yesterday morning, as I strolled around the practice greens, I bumped into one of our former colleagues from the St Antholin Undershaft Retirement Scheme project.
No, not Denis Zadosi (fortunately), but one Jean-Patois Wildeboare!
What are the chances, eh...?
Turns out old J-P is now knocking heads together and slapping backs at the Oathnell Distillery. He was in town for the weekend, and had apparently just popped in for a pot of peppermint tea.
Well, obviously, intrigued, I insisted on luncheon, so we sauntered down to the Benet Fink brasserie by the Exchange for ham and eggs.
The poor lamb has undergone a small degree of facial reconstruction since the incident at the bakery (which you may remember hearing about from Niamh's wedding), so he wasn't his usual ebullient self, but fortunately he's managed to retain his dry wit, to accompany his dry skin, and was in perky form.
I'm not entirely sure how, but we managed 3 bottles of rioja over the course of the following few hours, nattering about everything... from the bonus he still owes you, to his faked death, to his brief relationship with that girl who presents the weather forecast, and more. Oh, and he still has your engraved pen, too.
It was an entertaining jaunt down memory lane, but I really don't remember much else about the rest of the day. We ended up in the Club, that much I do know, because I woke up on the floor behind the bar. Maurice made me a cafetiere, and explained that J-P had hot-footed it to some important meeting in Flutwick that he had completely forgotten about.
He's going to be around again in May, so I thought I might act as peacemaker for the two of you, and encourage a meeting.
That's if you're game?
He really is most dreadfully sorry, and wants to explain his actions to you over a jar, or several, and some hot broth.
Be careful though, he still drinks like a rotter!
Your thoughts, as ever, are welcome.
I trust you are well, and have hopefully now found your missing gardening gloves.
Right, now where's that Alka Seltzer? Urrggh, it must be here somewhere...
Very best,
Pitkin
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