Last of the regulars

MY GOOD LADY wakes me by throwing herself into my arms and telling me with a sob that we've another funeral to go to.

Little B was found dead in his bed after MGL raised the alarm; he hadn't appeared at the Pub yesterday, and failed to answer his phone this morning.

The thing of it is, though, Little B was one of the mainstays of the Geriatrics' Corner; he was there every afternoon and every evening, drinking his halves of mild - a quiet, lonely man of tidy habits and gentle demeanour.

The one word that describes him best, I think, is neat: he was neat in his dress, neat in all his doings and arrangements. Neatness meant everything to him.

He was the last of the Geratrics' Corner's regulars - the rest of us just go, now, maybe a couple of times a week.

Little B was our friend, and our lives will be emptier for his absence.

Slowing down

I'M DEFROSTING THE freezer this evening, having emptied out the whole contents of the very full chest, and then attacked the inch-thick ice with a scrapper and a kettle of hot water and a cleaning rag.

And at the end of my exertions I have to admit I felt well and truly winded: my back was aching, my arms felt leaden and I was puffing like a grampus.

It's in such small efforts that one shows one's age creeping up on one with the stealth of a sneak thief.

To be honest, I'd become aware of my slowing down earlier - most notably when trying to push My Good Lady in her wheelchair around the eight-mile circuit of Stanley Park in Vancouver last year.

Or even earlier than that, when chest pains had necessitated my going for an angiogram the year before.

The funny thing is one isn't actually aware of growing older - you see the ageing process in others more than in yourself - until one day it falls upon you like a collapsing brick wall.

Anyhow, I've learned my lesson: next time I'll buy a self-defrosting freezer!

Going stag

WE ARE SUMMONED to the Pub by our friend, PD, who has started to appear there more regularly again, and of course is begging for lifts from us again.

His resolve, it seems, to come only once in a blue moon has lasted but a few months, and his capacity for beer is moderated only by his limited ability to pay for it.

Still, it is quite pleasing to see him - it's always a good laugh in his company - although it can at times get a little manic.

Talk is now markedly about Fran and Den's coming nuptials - it seems that the happy pair are to hold hen and stag parties, although My Good Lady and I have decided against attending these revelries. We don't wish to seem like party poopers but such things are really not our scene.

To be honest, I never even wanted a stag party before my own wedding, but unfortunately my father had other ideas.

The result was that I stood before the altar the following morning in a semi-comatose state, and said my marriage lines to the rhythm of beating drum in my head.

In any event, the session is to be held in the evening and we're not great ones for staying out late - we just get too tired and, in MGL's case, uncomfortable.

We're half hoping to persuade Fran and Den to have a pleasant meal with us earlier in the evening, then the ladies and the gents can split up to do their thing, while MGL and I slip quietly away.

I'm sure nobody will miss us.

A classic dish for dinner

THE RECIPE IS from Raymond Blanc and it's a cracker!

Duck breast with black cherry sauce, and served with sweet potato.

Actually, its the potato that comes as a revelation to me - previously I've never been that enamoured with sweet spuds, but by gum, they really went well today.

My Good Lady and I did the meal between us, with her as the chef and me as the kitchen dogsbody. I don't mind helping out, though.

First we sear the duck breasts, draining off the excess fat as we go, and frying them until the skins are crispy. Then into the oven with them.

Next the sweet potatoes get sliced up, and again fried in a little oil and butter until they're just beginning to brown, and then into the oven with them!

And while the cooker does its magic, we make up the jus - black cherries, stoned and blitzed, then with some brown sugar added, a good splash of red wine and ditto port, we make up a rich and very tasty sauce.

The whole thing takes about forty minutes, and you have a true classic dish on the table.

As we enjoy every mouthful I remark to MGL that, if I had my time over again, I think I'd like to be a cook. Not a chef, mind you - a cook.

Last thing I'd want to do is sweat away in some restaurant, churning out the same menu day and night.

No, I mean someone who could experiment with food and wine, with flavours and textures and colours, and then serve the results up in the form of the written word, in cook books and magazine articles.

That would combine my love of writing with my enjoyment of food and drink.

I can think of worse ways to earn a crust...

A mixture of fortunes

IT'S BEEN A freaky sort of week, beset with weariness from our holiday trip and some health concerns on both sides.

I went along to get the results of my latest medical blood-letting only to find that my cholesterol is still too high and now, it seems, I may have a problem with my kidneys.

Moreover, our Christmas Day lunch plans were scuppered when, upon enquiry, we discovered that our chosen venue has been fully booked for months - more or less since last year in fact.

Looks as though we're roasting our own goose this year.

Still, on the up-side of things, we were pleased to congratulate Fran and Den on their engagement - the happy couple are to be wed in about a month's time and we're to be invited to a reception at the local golf club.

Moreover, it's PD's sixtieth birthday this weekend and we take him along to the Geriatrics' Corner today to help him celebrate.

So, then, a week in which we experience a mixture of fortunes, some good, some troubling.

C'est la vie!

Almost here

WE'VE BEEN HOME for four days now, and I'm still not entirely sure I'm here.

I almost expect to wake up in our hotel in Pompei; home life doesn't seem quite real to me.

Oh, it's great to see our friends here of course, and from their reactions at our appearance they seem quite pleased to see us.

Nevertheless a sense of unreality still pervades my consciousness like a half-seen ghost.

Somehow, the holiday made a deeper impression on me than I expected.

Slowly, slowly, though, things are getting back into their normal perspective; I'm adjusting to driving on the left again, and to the sedate manners of other road users: I'm getting accustomed to the taste of good English bitter, and to the wonderful normality of My Good Lady's cooking.

Tomorrow we're off to do our first big shop for about five weeks, and if anything can bring me to earth, that should.

Yes, I think I'm almost here.

Arrivederci time

EVEN AS I write, My Good Lady is in our room packing our bags in preparation for our early departure tomorrow morning. (The reason I'm not helping her is that she's shooed me out of the room - packing, it seems, is a woman's thing, and best done alone.)

We had planned to visit the ruins of ancient Pompeii again today, but we've decided against it - it's just too much like hard work. So instead, after packing, we're off the find a nice bar where we can sit and watch the world go by and slake our ever-present thirst on something long and cool.

Besides, we're expecting a rather heavy evening of it, this evening.

We're going to dine in our favourite restaurant for the last time and to say arrivederci to all our chums there - and knowing them, it's going to be a very Italian time of it. They've already turned our modest evening repast into something resembling a five course feast, so heaven only knows what they'll do tonight when they learn that it's goodbye.

My Good Lady is a little sad to be leaving, but I for one am looking forward to being home - cold, wet, dark and miserable. Pure bliss!

A sense of triumph, Italian syle

• I THINK MY idea of Italy, when were planning our holiday, was of driving along country lanes, past fields of olive groves and vine plantations, stopping at tiny villages which served the local produce, and sleeping in old abbeys, now turned into comfortable hotels, or with farmers who rented rooms out in old disused barns.

• In my dreams, of course, all the Italians spoke a sort of Hollywood pidgen English (after all, I do know that they watch N.C.I.S. and C.S.I.- Miami, not to mention countless American movies, so they all bloomin' well ought).

• Sadly, that has not proved to be the case.

• Of course, it is entirely our fault that we chose to stay in a city. And, what's more, in the sprawling, ugly metropolis that is Naples/Pompei. Disability needs dictated.

• Idyllic though a Compania abbey or farmhouse sounds, we had to settle for a place that was wheelchair accessible.

• And not many abbeys and farmhouses are!

• Nevertheless, we came close to my ideal yesterday when we drove up Monte Faito.

• This modest mountain (1,100 meters/3,600 feet in height)was a drive along countless, blind hairpin bends and along road surfaces that would make most drivers blanche!

• Not me! Not to one taught to drive amidst the English Lake District or the Cumbrian Pennines.

• Even the Italian drivers had to give way to me - even they were nervous!

• As for me, I was in my element; this was fun!

• And the views from the summit of our adventurous drive were wonderful - right across the Bay of Naples (which between thee and me and this awful computer keyboard, is really something special; a visual delight that so many authors and artists have commented on - when we get home, I'll post one or two of our snaps here just to make you drool.)

• But what really pleased me was my sense of triumph; finally, I'd got these pesky Italian roadies on my turf, and guess what - they were lacking!

The odd custom of promenading

IT SEEMS TO be some sort of high church day today (Sunday).

In the morning, there's an open-air mass said to the gathered crowds in front of Pompei's massive cathederal. And people have been streaming in since yesterday - our hotel seems full to overflowing with visitors, mainly Italian.

We are told, upon enquiry, that it is the feast of St Francis of Assissi - a native, it seems, of these parts.

Now, it is a well-known belief in the Roman church that saints have the power to perform miracles - even long-dead ones, and the spectacle of these crowds is marked by the number of people on crutches and in wheelchairs.

Whether any such miracles have occured we haven't been able to ascertain.

Nevertheless, come the evening, there does appear to be something of a carnival atmostphere about the town, with more people than ever promenading around the place - there must be thousands of folk, all dressed up to the nines, milling around, back and forth, back and forth - all evening long.

We return from our favourite restaurant at about 10pm and the throngs are still there - still moving back and forth, up and down.

It goes on until about midnight, this odd entertainment, and then with much honking of horns, squealing of brakes and a great animated yelling of insults, the cars and motorbikes and Lambretta type scooters start up all at once, and leave the town centre for their homes in the seedy suburbs of Pompei and Naples.

The centre of town, by the early hours looks as if it has been ravaged by the marauding hordes - I've never seen so much filth and litter anywhere except perhaps after a Glastonbury Festival.

As I understand it, this odd custom of promenading takes place every weekend, and yes, in a smaller way, most evenings, too. We tried it ourselves once, but it proved to be a rather barren form of amusement to us.

The Italians think highly of it, though.

"Sympatico"

FOR THE first day of our holiday we are experiencing a day of rain.

Rain in the morning. Rain in the afternoon.

And I, for one, am not entirely sorry.

My Good Lady has already told of our trip to Sorrento and the Amalfi Coast yesterday. She politely failed to mention my collision with a bus!

All right, not a collision exactly, more just a scrape. Enough to put a dint in our hire-car, though. Another one!

Just hope our insurance covers it.

Anyhow, a quiet day today. A time for the old nerves to get themselves settled.

We more or less lock ourselves away in our hotel room today and watch as the rain falls and we can get back to the business of reading our holiday books.

The rain eases off this evening and we venture out to our favourite restaurant. It's our fifth visit, and we're almost becoming part of the family there.

Our regular waiter, Mario, greets us like long, lost cousins, steers us away from the crudité on the menu with a very expressive gesture, and generally guides us through our choice of food with, as we would put it, a nod and a wink.

The point I'm getting at here, is how surprisingly well we get on with restaurant staff - we, who have little knowledge of the language, and yet who are, in their word, sympatico.

I have to say, I really like the Italians. Except as drivers (who are all insane) I love their warmth and friendliness and hosptiality. If only we spoke their language more fluently, I'm sure we'd be invited back here by some of the people we've met.