IT was 33 summers ago that The Minstrel, underneath Mr. Piggott won the Derby, that Elvis left the building and that I arrived in the world to much celebration and ward-wide plaudits, except from my darling mother who complained to the doctor that ‘he cannot be mine, he is far too ugly’.
For those with refined literary tastes and a disposition towards the witty, insightful and well crafted, my last two weeks of being incommunicado will have been a welcome reprieve. Unfortunately for you, I, having just had two weeks rest and relaxation, am now back in the saddle, with a song in my heart, a pen in my hand and a grim determination to mix my metaphors.
When away from home, there are certain triggers that induce the longing to be in England in these summer months, and over the last few weeks these have been manifold; catching the sun-soaked snippets of Wimbledon, not losing money backing French raiders at Ascot, being sent photographs by friends at Henley CC.
A wonderful conversational reprieve arrived this week in the form of a flying visit from my Royal Dragoon Guards (RDG) brethren, Capt ‘Spike’ Lee.
Without wishing to erode the gossamer-thin veneer of machismo and testosterone afforded me by my current situation. I would like to thank my mother publicly for her recent aid-package, and specifically for the char-grilled artichoke hearts in extra virgin olive oil. Delish.
For those with an interest in such things, there is all manner of facial hair and beard-based goings-on in Kandahar Province.
There has been much media coverage in recent years over an alleged systemic failure of our military/government/whoever to provide the army with the ‘kit and equipment’ it requires in order to execute it's missions effectively and with minimum loss of life.
One of the most trivial hurdles to jump when on operations is that posed by the problem of getting a haircut.
When moving around Kandahar either in our armoured vehicles or on foot, it is hard to travel more than a street without passing flowering oleanders, either long swathes or solitary plants.
Sometimes the most innocuous comments, in the most curious of environs, delivered by the most incongruous of people, triggers envious longings and bouts of home-sickness or frustration born of circumstance.
