Mad dog and mindgamesmanship
This morning, in between working on poems and other matters, found myself scowling at the thought of money. However this Gordon Brownish glowering quickly turned into a bout of heel-clicking yippees, when an anonymous envelope poked through my letter flap turned out to be a sizable tax rebate.
Skipped merrily down to the bank, inducing the bank employee to talk wistfully of a tax rebate he'd once had. Then for a swim, my first for a while and surprisingly, considering the heat of the day, not excessively busy. Breached up and down for half an hour, before returning home to a spot of light tiding, and a longish chat with Simon.
Then Bob arrived hot foot from Eastbourne where he had been training people. After the old Mad dog had washed his feet in cooling water, there was some tea sipping and listening to the soothing murmury rock selection on my iPod. It was good to chat, before Bob and Claire and Millie move to Salisbury.
Then off to the Caxton to play a few games of pool, which were conducted with a undercurrent of mindgamesmanship. As we played, for example, Bob made the observation that I only played well when he gave me permission to play well. This was not true, but was a galling and effective distraction. My advice to novice pool players is to avoid selecting, as your mail pool opponent over the years, someone who is a) a lot better than you, and b) has studied as a counselor.
From the Caxton to the curry house, and after to The Cricketers where we met Lorraine, who had a drink with us. Bob and Lorraine talking interestedly about training and teaching and children. Disappointingly, my attempts to draw the subject round to the life and works of Peter Kenny were only intermittently successful.
We bade farewell to Lorraine and the old Mad dog and I sat about drinking sparkling mineral waters till it was time for bed. 
This morning, in between working on poems and other matters, found myself scowling at the thought of money. However this Gordon Brownish glowering quickly turned into a bout of heel-clicking yippees, when an anonymous envelope poked through my letter flap turned out to be a sizable tax rebate.
Skipped merrily down to the bank, inducing the bank employee to talk wistfully of a tax rebate he'd once had. Then for a swim, my first for a while and surprisingly, considering the heat of the day, not excessively busy. Breached up and down for half an hour, before returning home to a spot of light tiding, and a longish chat with Simon.
Then Bob arrived hot foot from Eastbourne where he had been training people. After the old Mad dog had washed his feet in cooling water, there was some tea sipping and listening to the soothing murmury rock selection on my iPod. It was good to chat, before Bob and Claire and Millie move to Salisbury.
Then off to the Caxton to play a few games of pool, which were conducted with a undercurrent of mindgamesmanship. As we played, for example, Bob made the observation that I only played well when he gave me permission to play well. This was not true, but was a galling and effective distraction. My advice to novice pool players is to avoid selecting, as your mail pool opponent over the years, someone who is a) a lot better than you, and b) has studied as a counselor.
From the Caxton to the curry house, and after to The Cricketers where we met Lorraine, who had a drink with us. Bob and Lorraine talking interestedly about training and teaching and children. Disappointingly, my attempts to draw the subject round to the life and works of Peter Kenny were only intermittently successful.
We bade farewell to Lorraine and the old Mad dog and I sat about drinking sparkling mineral waters till it was time for bed.
Below Brighton's Pavilion Gardens in the sun today.
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