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By the time I arrived, the battlefield was laid out on a table in the bar.
The battalions were surrounding a pepper pot, representing the misfire on D’s DBS. To the north, the ketchup (representing money) was going to take a frontal assault. To the west, the salt (representing money) was going to form a pincer movement with a sachet of mustard (representing money) to the east. To the south, horseradish sauce (representing money, there wasn’t much left in the bottle) stood ready. The throng regarded the assembled condiments with some horror. It was a solemn evening. Last year’s Morris Dancers had failed to show up. There was no John Hop. West Sussex was not putting on the Ritz tonight. Later, Lawrence wandered over to watch the river Arun glide silently below the ancient bridge that completes the setting of the White Hart. There was D, an empty glass in hand, staring down into the waters. Lawrence put an arm around his shoulders and led him back to the inglenook. Gareth looked at his watch and eyed the line of pumps. Aston ownership, we decided, was indivisible from fellowship.
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