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.