29 not out

Birthday today, and what a ruddy nice day for it. Spent a long time crisping up on the roof terrace, listening to appalling Europop flamenco from the flat opposite and aggressive motivational shouting from the community centre down the road ("You quittin' now bwoy? I AIN'T HEARING THAT YOU BE QUITTIN'!").

I'm too heat-wilted to blog extensively this evening, and I've got sun lotion in my eye which is hampering my concentration, but thought I'd share a nugget from last night.  The missus treated me to dinner in Wild Honey, which aside from sharing its name with an excellent Beach Boys song is a nice Frenchy restaurant.  After we'd ordered the waiter placed a piece of slate between us with great ceremony.  On it was a pale golf ball-shaped object.  Ah, I though knowledgably, the amuse-bouche.  I like to know what I'm eating, so I politely asked the waiter what exactly it was.  His mouth twitched.  "It's the butter, sir" he replied with a mixture of kindness and pity.