S. and S. invited us round to their flat yesterday, which is on the same road as where my brother used to live. The Dr and H. had also looked at a flat there in the Time Before Me, and almost took it on the basis of it having the same name as one of Jane Austen's cads. They instead chose a flat with a view onto squirrels.
Anyway. As we rang the doorbell, the Dr and M. asked what I might like to eat on my birthday (it being merely three months away). "Pies," I said.
So it was with some excitement that S. then revealed what she'd cooked us. Oh yes. Home-made, hand crafted pies of some excellence. And pecan puddings and ice-cream. And a modest amount of nice wine. Mmm. I had enough belly afterwards to rest my drink on, though the gathered ladies seemed not to appreciate this feat.
Conversation led inevitably to bosoms and the Nazis. No, not at the same time. The taximan on the way home tried to run L. over as he dropped her off, and then told us about his rank being asked if they'd beaten up a fare.
"The police didn't think we'd done anything, but they still had to check our books," he said. I wondered why you'd keep notes on roughing someone up, which seemed a bit officious.
Our road does not have the same name as someone in Jane Austen, but there is another road with the same name a few miles away. Which would be confusing enough if our's wasn't hiding.
Tonight there is curry for 10 of us, and all but the Dr has been on the Big Finish pay roll. Will report back how long it takes us from kick-off to reach Hitler and tits.