Espresso martinis

It’s Sunday morning. I’m halfway down my second gut-scraping Americano, and I’ve caught up on my current affairs reading. Time to blog, but what about? I’m kinda current-affaired out.

So, how about our trip to Henley Royal Regatta this week. A happy, uplifting, dreadfully inconsequential tale, but it makes me smile as I write. Actually this year we went twice. Wednesday we met with Hubby’s family and caught up with tales of aunts and uncles, cousins and co. The racing was a bit ho hum. Too many walkovers. But despite this, plus the traffic and the rain and the cold and the extortionate prices, a stonking good time was had by all. 

Friday, Hubby and I met up with former work colleagues. Learning from Wednesday and not bothered about looking glamorous at my age, I donned layers: warm undies, woollen dress, raincoat, scarf and flat shoes. Boy was I toasty and comfortable. And, despite the General Election result, everyone we chatted to was stoic, philosophical, informed, engaging, gracious, accommodating, witty and a helluva lot of fun. Never had the phrase ‘tax haven’ featured so often as a topic of conversation.

I was given a choice by one of our guests: did I want to talk about Southampton vs Leeds United, or the General Election. Not realising that Soton and Leeds was an issue, other than in a north-south divide kind of way, I plumped for the GE. What is very telling is that the dichotomies contrived by politicians, press and campaigners are not universal in real life. For example, it is possible to be economically savvy, i.e. neoliberal, and care for the environment at the same time. Hearing firsthand from the horses’ mouths of industry leaders is far more instructive and enlightening than paying attention to Guardian gibberish, BBC banality, Private Eye prattle and Thunberg thickies. As with everything in life, nothing is absolute. The trick is to be judicious. When an industry leader dismisses the environment, I dismiss their opinions. Similarly, when the Thunbergs of this world demonise every single molecule of the fossil fuel (or water!) industry, I turn my back. I’m lucky in that I have the opportunity to converse with different industries, personalities and campaigners so get to hear and cogitate on different perspectives. I try to share my insight with both sides, and it’s very telling who’s willing to listen and who isn’t. Too many are suffocatingly dismissive. Their loss. Am I bovvered? Not any more. I’ve tried. I try. My conscience is clear. My morals are grounded high.

I was asked during pre-lunch drinks (not sure where the dividing lines were between morning, pre-lunch, lunch, post-lunch and afternoon drinks) if I’d ever thought about standing as an MP myself. Yes. Yes I have. I do. Frequently. I did for this election. But I can’t be an MP and a PhuDder at the same time. There are simply not enough hours in the day. I’d also have to be true to my constituents’ preferences first, mine second and my party’s third. Screwed!

Espresso martinis certainly help conviviality at Henley (anywhere, for that matter). They were on a bar menu and I promised our guests that I’d treat them to one after lunch. However, after wine with lunch, and the rain, we dashed straight to the Grandstand to watch the rowing. Well, Hubby watched the rowing, as did our guests for whom it was a novelty. I preferred to people-watch – the hats, the ridiculously boob-revealing dresses (I mean ridiculous boobs as much as I mean ridiculous dresses), the garish blazers, the shell-shocked school-kid rowers – for some, this was their introduction to ‘society’. Social mobility in all its glory. Good for them. Gotta take the plunge sometime. Set them up for life. Just please please please don’t study PPE at Oxford and become a politician or SPAD. Do something useful and productive instead.

An old college mate suddenly appeared. Hugs and kisses all round, he announced that the next race featured a mutual college-friend’s daughter as cox. Excited, we watched the race, cheered on the cox, and whooped when she won. At which point, the father of the cox arrived. More hugs and kisses, and then they were gone. Until next year’s brief reunion at Henley. That’s how it works.

After a while we remembered the espresso martinis and dashed to the bar, but the area was jam-packed with people sheltering under umbrellas and under the awning. Undeterred, and remembering my time as a commuter at Waterloo station, I folded my umbrella and elbowed my way through the crowds with an excuse me here and a dreadfully sorry there until I got to the bar. A nice little bartender mixed my drinks with skilful theatrics. Carrying them back to our guests, it was a watch your backs here and a coming through there, until I found them, plus two newcomers who also fancied the cocktails. So back I went. Same script. Got to the bar, and the nice little barman didn’t bat an eyelid when I ordered two more. But the chap behind me who sounded like Jacob Rees-Mogg (missing him already) said, “You back again?” “It’s not what it seems,” I responded. “That’s what they all say,” he laughed. “Saucy,” I quipped. And we both laughed. Back with my guests, halfway down my glass, the Moggy man appeared and said, “Ah ha!” “Your good health, Sir,” I responded, and we raised our respective glasses.

No idea who he was. Never seen him before. Never will again probably. But that’s Henley for you. One big genuine camaraderie.

Not long afterwards, heading to another bar that sold beer not cocktails to accommodate another guest, we got separated. I left my lot suitably occupied and went off to find Hubby. I walked past yet another bar and scrutinised the crowds in case I could see him. I spied some frantic arm-waving, which turned out to be a couple of yet more college mates trying to catch my attention. I pushed my way towards them and when I got there enjoyed more hugs and kissy-kissy moments. No they hadn’t seen Hubby but would keep their eyes open for him. Not convinced because of our respective inebriated states, we hugged and kissed once more, and off I went. I soon found Hubby looking suitably sheepish, and we recongregated with our guests.

Hours later, back home, makeup off, snuggled up in my winter PJs, gin and tonic at the ready, I replayed the day’s events in the few brain cells that were still functioning. Henley was the perfect antidote – and counter-argument – to an incoming socialist government. Where there are Henleys, nuclear families, college-mates, industry networks, Rees-Moggs - and Farages - there’s hope.