Monday, August 13, 2007
Spent a weekend in Happisburgh (pronounced Haze-borough), in Norfolk, with my oldest friend in the world, Tim and his family (wife, four children, sister-in-law, brother-in-law, their two kids) who are holidaying there. I swam in the sea (good), played with the kids (good), drank beer (good) at the pub with the surly - and possibly racist? - barman (bad) where, sitting outside, and having chosen not to spray myself with any of Tim's military grade insect repellent, my knees were feasted upon by winged beasties of the night (bad). And I generally basked in the warm quiet patient love of dear friendship (very good indeed).
I've known Tim a touch over thirty years now, was Best (hah!) Man at his wedding and am Godfather to his eldest son, Sam. This last position involves me ensuring the young man's spiritual well-being. This I achieve by remembering approximately one birthday in three and mostly getting his name right on the rare occasions that I see him.
And the misunderstanding with the horse's head in his bed has been more or less forgiven now I think.
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