The one about

I loved Friends, the American TV comedy series about, well, friends. Each show had a memorable moment, like the one about Rachel losing her engagement ring, and the one about Chandler flirting in a bank’s ATM foyer. Inevitably, the phrase ‘the one about’ became synonymous with the show. Part of its charm was its relatability; the protagonists were always falling out with each other or having a larff at each other’s expense or hugging or crying or being plain stupid.

I thought about that series the other night when I was struggling to sleep because the champagne bubbles (actually it was English sparkly – far superior) were dancing in my tummy, and historic memories and recent outrages were careering around my head. Not to mention Hubby snoring in my ear.

It all began over 40 years ago when I went to my first Henley Royal Regatta, courtesy of future-Hubby who qualified for life-membership of, and guest tickets for, the Stewards Enclosure by dint of him rowing at the regatta with our College eight. He didn’t win a trophy. Nowhere close. But he did secure his membership of the Stewards, which made him far more attractive. After a couple of years, we began to meet up with other rowers and hangers-on and picnic in the carpark. At first it was sarnies and brollies. Over the years, we progressed to Parisian canapés (i.e. canapés made in actual Paris, France), whole salmon, medium-rare roast beef, boned and stuffed guinea fowl, plus pavlovas, possets, petit fours, and as much champagne (as it was in those days) as we could legally accommodate, all while sheltering – from sun or rain – under a bespoke gazebo. Each attendee brought a dish or two. A team effort. If we actually saw any rowing, I can’t remember.

Covid briefly put the kibosh on our annual gathering. When it restarted, the dress code had relaxed (ladies could wear trousers), and the race programme no longer listed the individual rowers’ weight. Henley eschewing fat-shaming? How woke is that! I think the killer was that the clientele (in the cheap seats) had not only gone downhill but fallen off a cliff. Attire had morphed from risqué to debauched (yes – I’m slut-shaming) and incontinence was the new inebriation. Our Crowd wanted to stick to our Jaegar and Darel, pearls and primness, but the dumbing down had gone too far. The magic had gone. Maybe we were just older and habituated to ‘elite’ events. Whatever. The Henley Crowd disappeared from Henley.

Hubby and I continued to pop along to the Stewards, mostly just the two of us, to bump into old College mates, whoever was around. We ate in the seafood tent rather than picnicked. Occasionally Hubby would invite some corporate contacts to join us for the day from the worlds of finance, defence, utilities and haulage – a lefty’s wet-nightmare. For me, while it was mentally knackering it was intellectually and emotionally fulfilling.

Then this year, last weekend, a lot of the Henley Crowd got back together. Not at Henley but at one of the rowers’ homes. Why? Why not! Thirteen of us schlepped through thunderstorms to East Anglia, the driest past of the country apart from this one weekend. We arrived at 11.55am. Dressed in Boden rather than Bennett, rowing blazers long-ago too small, we started drinking at noon and didn’t stop until 12.40 the next morning. (Such behaviour might be linked to the too-small blazers.) My contribution to lunch was a whole, baked, sea trout that I called Simon. I nearly threw the cat (I called it Calamity) in the oven when it tried to pounce on Simon as I turned my back for a second to take a break from thinly slicing cucumber garnish. The roast beef lady was relieved that her malfunctioning AGA hadn’t ruined her concoction, and the canapés were in danger of being smothered by wasps. Dessert was lemon posset (I don’t like lemons, which is why I’d squeezed lime into my mayonnaise – that I called Maria – to accompany Simon) and white chocolate cheesecake with blackcurrants that I didn’t fancy, so I went straight for the local cheeses. The intention had been to have a barbie in the evening, but we were still stuffed (note the elite vocabulary) from lunch, and instead nibbled leftovers washed down by more champers – sorry I do mean English sparkly!

We survived the inevitable slide into politics. For once I wasn’t the most outspoken, leaving the grunt work to my fellow right-wingers. I piped up once to suggest that the source of a particularly egregious accusation against Reform UK was a lie. My first choice of phraseology, that the accusation “didn’t ring true”, hadn’t raised an eyebrow, so I upped the ante to up some eyebrows. Shortly afterwards, I raised my own eyebrow over the description of a particular situation as ‘antagonistic’. I proffered ‘unresolved’ as a more fitting alternative, but that didn’t further the underlying agenda. Did it.

Then another of our number announced he was applying to become a citizen of France. Importing canapés from an enemy state is one thing; exporting British nationals to it is another. I’d have said as much, but Hubby thrust a chocolate in my mouth. He wished he’d had one to hand when the Reform lie surfaced.

Brunch the next morning coincided with Defra Secretary Steve Reed’s politically opportunistic, self-serving, fooled-nobody press release in response to the publication of the informed, mature, pragmatic Cunliffe Report on the future of the water industry. The report isn’t 100% to my liking (nothing ever is), but it recommends the demise of Ofwat, increasing customer bills in line with economic and environmental reality, and the continuing need for market-led executive salaries, which is commonsensical rather than ideological. What was not recommended was renationalisation. Yeehaw. I reached for the Bucks Fizz and Marmite. Because we were amongst friends, the discussion about Cunliffe was insightful, searching and constructive. Everyone was genuinely interested in understanding the situation and didn’t try to score points by ignoring the laws of science, engineering, hydrology, ecology, economics and finance.

Since then, I’ve kept myself amused by reading various objections to Cunliffe that are contextually constrained, factually farcical, logically lacking and morally moronic, liked and regurgitated by the predictable cohorts of nodding dogs. One example: ‘executive pay doesn’t need to be competitive because the companies are monopolies and not subject to competitor pressure’. One rebuttal out of many: the water industry has to compete for talent, contractors, investment, assets, and materials, the most important of which is talent ergo executives work in a competitive environment ergo they need to be good enough to compete ergo they have to be remunerated commensurately. Cunliffe has been accused of being a friend to the water industry. Good for him. As Wishbone Ash sang, “Everybody needs a friend.”

As we were leaving, I was asked if I could leave some sea trout. Gladly. Until I saw it being spooned onto the cat’s saucer. But that faux pas was forgivable.

Now back home, I don’t have to unpack – just grab some clean undies – because I’m off again in a day or two, picking up Sis along the way, heading to the Lake District for a family funeral. Our 97 year-old Uncle (Mum’s older brother). Very sad obviously, but Sis and I can comfort ourselves that we’ll get to catch up with our lovely cousins, and have time to hop across to the coast to see our surviving aunt and uncle and other cousins (on Dad’s side and equally lovely).

Before then, there’s a mad dash to Gloucestershire to have lunch with Mother-in-law (Milly) and family (Son and Daughter[D]) of her deceased friends. D caught my bouquet at our wedding, which was a bit embarrassing as I’d meant it to go to Hubby’s cousin. I’m not sure D ever knew that. Hope she doesn’t read my blog, at least not before we’ve had lunch.

I’ve met up with other friends and family recently as well; there’s a couple of future dates in my diary for even more liaisons, and there are at least three, no four, sorry five more catch-ups on my list to arrange. No wonder my waistline is struggling. But my soul is thriving.

This blog is definitely the one about an embarrassment of riches.