In Hertford, Hereford, and Hampshire, hurricanes hardly ever happen. This month in the SE of England it’s an Indian summer and yesterday Bertie and I went to Hertfordshire.
I read The Lord of The Rings and associated Mordor’s black volcanic plain with Morden at the end of the black Northern Line – somewhere to be avoided, at least by me as I am not a brave Hobbit.
My grandfather expressed consternation when I got a job in the City after university. I remember him shaking his head, saying he’d always thought I should go into the church and have a parish in the West of Ireland with some good fishing and snipe bogs … perhaps woodcock, he added hopefully.
It is rare to see potted shrimps on a restaurant menu but the sort of clubs I go to invariably have them on their menus. I mean the sort of clubs where one eats in the coffee room, although sometimes it’s the only room where coffee isn’t served.
Government backed “levelling up” has mixed results. That’s my way of saying taxpayers’ money is usually spent as ineffectively in this area as it is for overseas aid.