How do we best describe Saturday afternoon in the Boleyn Inn?
A further experience in life’s rich tapestry; a near-death experience; a foolish decision we got away with or a good laugh and a chance to sing about bubbles as though they were central to our existence.
All of these I think.
Maybe it’s that we’re getting old and I can’t face this kind of thing anymore. My diminishing ability to
1. blend in with these people if needed
2. rationalise with them if 1 doesn’t work
3. run if 2 doesn’t work
may be influencing my decision but whatever way you look at it, Saturday’s experience is right up there is terms of dodgy moments I could have done without. I also have to admit that with sparring partners in Chelski and Lise Le Meas, it was evident that most of us were going to be leading with our chins in any boxing matches which did break out. I decided not to share my concerns with them just in case it unnerved them, thus making us stand out more than my Irish accent and grey hair was allowing. Instead I sang the first verse of “I’m forever blowing bubbles” over and over again and tried to look as though I was there deliberately. And me missing my blood pressure tablets, fucking hell.
I still haven’t recovered.