Two pleasant surprises last Friday - the sun was glimpsed in Lyon after a whole week's absence without leave, and we had a late notice visit from the Punjab Princess and the Gujarat Gooner. A convivial evening ensued: much catching up was done, much chicken and cheese consumed, much champagne and red wine imbibed, and an inquest into the death of a football season was held.
Saturday morning it seemed Spring was contemplating a welcome return. Alas, I was forced to leave la bienheureuse and the Lyon sunshine behind to make a final pilgrimage of the season. I was greeted in Stansted by chilly winds, clounds and drizzle. Welcome to Blighty. It was raining even harder on my arrival in Cambridge, but the welcome from the Margarita Man and Customs Officer Ken was warm. English ale, Indian lager and curry followed in traditional fashion.
The rain had stopped but the clouds remained the following day as we took the train to the holy ground. Football was preceded by a tasty Sunday lunch at the Marquess and a foolhardy attempt by Professor Margarita to prove his virility by racing the escalator up the H&I tube station stairs, which succeeded only in putting his back out. The match was a stress free event thanks to opponents whose minds were elsewhere but did little to ease the pain of the preceding few weeks even if further small comfort was gained from the distancing of the old enemy down the road.
This morning the sun was glimpsed in Fen Ditton before disappearing once more, but I indulged in a bit of shopping and work-aversion therapy while the gardiner-builder struggled back and forward from his own work site. Tomorrow I look forward to watching yet another cup appear in the much mocked Highbury trophy cabinet and then the arrival of ma bien-aimée on Wednesday prior to stage one of the great half century celebrations. Icelandic volcano permitting...
