Pussy cat, Pussy cat

We went up to London but not to visit the Queen. Sob sob.

(Third blog in five days? Something must be rotten in the state of R-land …)

Four of us congregated in our flat at odd times during the afternoon because we were all coming from different directions. I was first to arrive at about 3:45pm. I had intended to be there earlier but I had a brain fart at Euston Station and, instead of walking to Euston Square to get the Tube to Farringdon, I dreamily drifted down the escalators to the Northern Line and nearly ended up at London Bridge.

Hubby arrived at about 4:15pm (at the flat, not London Bridge), where he was berated for not buying enough milk. Next to arrive was our friend, a small entity accountant whom I shall call A. Last but not least was his wife (who’s also our friend), and she’s an entity all unto herself and will be called E. I had texted her and asked her to buy some milk, which she did, thankfully, but no cakes.

“I nearly bought Champagne,” she argued in her defence.

Nearly? NEARLY?

We hadn’t seen each other for ages so caught up on all our news while enjoying our tea, without cakes. We’re all of a similar age and the topics included knees, backs, eyes, teeth and bunions. After the catch-up, we had a quick wash and brush up before hailing a taxi to the West End.

“What time’s the concert?” asked A.

“Seven,” replied Hubby, “and the restaurant’s at 8:45.”

“Sorry what?” I asked. “I thought we were having supper first and then the show.”

“Um …” said Hubby, battening down his metaphorical hatches for his second telling-off of the day. “I couldn’t get a table early enough, therefore we’re doing it this way round.”

“But I’m hungry now!” I whined, then turned to E and said, “If only you’d bought cakes.”

At the venue, we found our table and I grabbed the bar menu.

“They do snacks. They do snacks,” I sang excitedly and ordered three different platefuls to share, while E focused on the Champers.

When the snacks arrived, there were just two smoked salmon blinis, three breaded shrimp and three cheese goujons.  There were four of us: me, a former banker; A, a small entity accountant; Hubby, a large entity accountant; and E, a management consultant and no use to man nor beast in such a situation. Between the three financiers, we decided that each couple would share one blini, one couple would share a goujon and the second couple would have one each. Finally, the second couple would share a shrimp and the first couple would have one shrimp each. Guess which couple had two shrimps! Mind you, E snuck down an extra glass of Champers (from the second bottle).

The concert – blues – was fine. The musicians were brilliant but devoid of any personality. The singer was much more engaging but her voice was a bit samey whatever she sang. And at that age, Deary, wear a shift dress.

Concert finished, we schlepped over to the African-fusion restaurant for some African cuisine fused with lots of wine, which is why the conversation got a bit more interesting. A&E were annoyed that their direct trains home the next day weren’t running because of engineering works. The Saturday at the end of half term? Way to go, Network Rail! I suggested they stay another night in the flat, but they had to just had to under pain of death get home asap for Arthur. The cat. See? There was more to this blog title than you thought. They devised a grand plan to get onto the Central Line somewhere, get to somewhere in Essex, then a train to somewhere else in Essex, then another train to somewhere in Norfolk before driving home, although there was some discussion as to exactly where in Norfolk A had left the car.

E then announced out of the blue that she had recently read one of my blogs. She’d accidentally clicked on the link in my email signature, having judiciously avoided it up until then. 

“The fact that you’re still friends means it can’t have been about Brexit,” chuckled A, while Hubby concentrated very hard on cutting up his potato cake. 

A & I have had many a conversation and email-exchange about the virtues of free speech and the insidious creep of cancel culture perpetuated by insidious creeps. Many writers use a spell-checker. I lean on A as a sanity-checker.

A then complimented me on my knowledge of accounting – he’s examining the books of an organisation for which I’m Treasurer – saying that I know enough about FRS102 standards to pass the Institute’s Part 1 examinations. I thanked him for the compliment, and then gently explained that I’d got the balance sheet to balance before he’d told me to move around a couple of entries, and it doesn’t balance anymore. 

“Is the difference divisible by nine?” Hubby and A asked in unison?

Apparently, if that’s the case then there’s probably a decimal point in the wrong place. Last time I checked, £250 wasn’t divisible by nine. I later found that instead of moving a line of expenditure, I’d duplicated it, which isn’t de rigueur per FRS102.

The journey back to the flat was uneventful; there was no Champers, or cakes, so we went straight to bed. The next morning after a late breakfast, we went through all the permutations and combinations of whether to wash which sheets and towels, because we’d forgotten who was staying in the flat next – A&E again or my Sis – and whether the spare sheets in the drawer were clean or whether Sis hadn’t washed them after her last stay. 

That sort of conundrum is where a management consultant comes into their own.