Iceland

Cripes! It’s been all go today. 9 am sharp Lady S wakes me up with the words ‘Get packing, we’re going up north for four nights’. Well it can’t be Watford can it. ‘Er where to’ says I, thinking not another bloody evangelical mission to help poor mountain people, but actually saying ‘Yorkshire Moors? The Lake District?… N n n n Not Scotland, surely?’ I bleat.

‘Iceland’ she said, looking at me with her gimlet eye, you couldn’t see the other one as it had a monocle in it, daring me to make the old joke about the shop. I bottled it. ‘But but … Isn’t it cold up there (pathetic), don’t they eat Puffins? (better) Didn’t they go bust?’ (not nearly good enough).

‘ There a lot of poor god forsaken people up there and you are Fffing well coming with me to help them. End of.’ God help me. But Edwards did secrete a rather fine bottle of malt into the luggage. What a good butler he is.