I spent some time this week working in St James’s in London – the home of England’s most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs. It was like being in a timewarp. I felt like Miss Marple on a trip to Claridges. I saw pinstripes, meticulously-folded handkerchieves in top pockets, buttonholes, pipes, and horn-rimmed glasses. Everyone looked and sounded like Leslie Phillips.
At one point on my perambulations, I encountered one of those narrow passageways under some scaffolding and gave way to an elderly gent.
“Eye of a needle, old chap,” he said. “Eye of a needle.”
Hi. I’m now back from the south coast of Gran Canaria. It was muy bien. The villa was on the edge of a mini-desert of sand dunes and had a resident cat called Pedro. It also had air con thankfully, as it was 44° degrees when we arrived and didn’t make it below 25.