We’re just back from a quick flit to Italy and a wild and wonderful wedding. It was all huge fun, although as I look back with throbbing, bloodshot eyes, I see, of course, that we could have done things differently, not to say better, such as by pacing ourselves more sensibly and staying off the grappa.
It was arriving late that threw us (thanks easyJet) and the resultant determination to hit the ground running and prove our worth. The inevitable upshot is a distinct liverishness today. At least I’m not as frail as Mrs Ray, who sat pale, monosyllabic and remorseful next to me on the flight home. She had raced out of the traps way before the gun and by the time I lassoed her by the dance floor she had already moved through fizz, white and red to her second pitcher of mojito because ‘the first one didn’t work’.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in