Sunday, October 25

Nice one, Sam

This morning was an idyllic English Sunday. We strolled along the promenade soaking up the sunshine and distant church bells, negotiating early-morning drinkers downing bottles of cider. Although we had pre-booked a Prosecco brunch (a) there were the contents of two crabs to be eaten, and (b) I'm not really a Prosecco man when something better is on offer. In the old days, back at South London Mansions, Sunday lunches were regularly preceded by a visit to the whelk stall. Sundays weren't Sundays without a selection of shell-on prawns, brown shrimp, cockles, whelks and crab claws...and so in the spirit of those times we called by Mark Lobb's and purchased a selection - returned home, opened a bottle of Gilles Dumangin's finest. Home this weekend is a rather swanky affair, replete with yachts, Range Rovers and Porsche motor cars. The lad in the next room drives a 488 Spider and the bar is full of Berlusconi look-alikes wearing a bronzed smile, silk shirt and dark spectacles. I was tempted to join the fray but settled for a sofa and commentary from the Stadium of Light.

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