Number two

"This old man here reckons his colostomy bag entitles him to jump the queue," said the skinhead, "and make racist slurs about the lady of Afro-Caribbean extraction in the advance-travel window."

It’s a glorious morning. Claire clears the desk and starts work while I tend to livestock and burn the prunings of two weeks ago. We walk through the woodlands and then I pack.

Angus awaits at his flat, from where we head to Portobello. Emily gives us tea, toast, and speakers. She also had my wellies that I left with Ailsa after John’s funeral. We’re not hanging around, though - Angus needs lunch.

We’re pleasantly delayed meeting Andres and Fran who are loitering in their front garden. It’s Fran’s birthday and they’re stuffed from a huge feast, about to take a post prandial stroll. We chat and mozy on.

At the Espy, hunger and fatigue gets the better of him. I distract him from an attack of indigestion with backgammon. The place is packed and the game is well over before the food arrives. Then there’s just time for a brief stroll down the prom - my second child sporting a number two buzz cut.

Angus is deposited back at his flat with vittles for the night and I head for Maybury. The 900 whisks me to Buchanan Street and then the Airport Express.

There’s another queue from hell at security. Jo bought me Fast Track, but I have no documentary evidence. Turns out it’s because it’s part of Matt’s parking ticket and, after a stressful ten minutes, he emails me a copy and I’m through.

We have 45 minutes to kill at Bristol before Julien arrives and a taxi whisks us into darkened, rainy Somerset. The pub is closed, but there’s a woman waiting to hands us the keys. I’d like to collapse into bed, but there’s the small matter of the recommendations for a track at Agile 2018 to be done.