It's Been Two Years

Once upon a time a slightly gangly and decidedly thinner model of me attended an audition to sing with a progressive rock outfit. That was twenty years ago, when we looked like this. The incredibly beautiful (and slim) one with the crimped hair at the front is yours truly...

...and the leather jacketed fellow on the left is my old mate Anal. We'd managed, until Tuesday just gone, to let two years slip by without seeing Anal and his lovely wife Sandybum. That's far too long.

Mrs The Millbrooker and I took the train in the rain from Bath, this is the grey and damp scene from the railway station looking at Manvers Street just before we left.

And with little more ado found ourselves at Anal and Sandybum's back door, which sports a nice piece of cast ironware in the form of a small plaque.

And Anal himself opened the door...

...before getting the kettle on so that we could all enjoy that most English of two-year-ice-breakers - a nice cuppa.

As it happens, no ice breaking was required; Anal and I were quickly sniggering like schoolboys at double-entendres (and single-entendres) whilst Mrs The Millbrooker interjected with some occasional sense.

Needless to say, the pub beckoned quite quickly. Anal's local is The Cedar Hotel in Westbury where they keep a very decent pint (of Milk St Brewery's "Amarillo").

And then we hatched a plot to stay for the night instead of heading home; the ale just wanted us to stay.

This meant that Anal and I got to play in his music room with his large collection of guitars.

The shots above are missing one important instrument. I got to make noises with Anal's pride and joy.

Oh yes - a genuine top end Fender Stratocaster; simply beautiful and far too good for the likes of me. Fortunately Anal's guitaring skills are umpteen rungs above mine and the instrument sounds like its enormous price tag (see link above if you're curious) was worth it in his little mitts.


A diet busting evening meal at The White Hart in Corsley (which sports a marvellous cigarette shaped weather-vane on its cancer-stick addicts' shelter) was generously sponsored by our host and very much enjoyed by Sandybum.

Back at the ranch, all beered out, we elected to indulge in a cuppa, poured with great concentration after a prodigious intake of ale and pub grub.

During the late evening fug of over-indulgence, I was delighted to spot a book that Anal keeps so he can understand Midsomer Murders on the telly. He keeps notes on who's who and who's done what to whom as the episode unfolds.

Finally our bed was prepped by an energetic Sandybum as Anal watched supportively.

There was, of course, one last ritual to be performed before leaving for home in the morning. It didn't take Anal long to notice the new design in the gravel.

Yes, indeed, I'm only very slightly ashamed to say that Anal and I are like naughty school boys and delight in drawing knobs at (almost) every opportunity.


Boys will be boys. And so will some middle aged plonkers.