Crests

I am having a whale of a time at the moment.  I think I've been out for lunch almost every day that I've been in London for the last fortnight, and was also wined and dined on Monday night in the heart of the West End. 

My lovely mate Tall Richard took me to the RAF Club for dinner.

Well.

It was marvellous. 

There are many beautiful paintings of aircraft, as you'd expect.  Also chandeliers and brass fittings everywhere. And flunkies, guarding the door, and minding your rucksack if you happen to have come straight from work.  Mine was much admired.  Apparently they don't see many pink flowery ones. 

I was particularly taken with the huge stained glass window.  As I had completely forgotten to pack my camera, I took a few fuzzy snaps on my phone:

Please note the professional almost-joining of the two halves.

You're welcome.

There is a long corridor lined with original artwork from the Royal College of Heralds, one for each Squadron (I think), all very lovely.

Here's one up close.

But my very favourite thing about the place was that everything - everything - at dinner was emblazoned with the club crest.  I bet if you conducted an intimate examination of the staff, they'd all have it tattooed on them somewhere.

The coffee cups.

The wine glasses.

The wine.  And very nice it was too, by the way.

Even the after-dinner chocolates.

Excellent.

Tall Richard and I ate a huge and marvellous meal, got a Death Race 2000 taxi back to his flat, then walked to the Prospect of Whitby pub for a cheeky late night drink.  And then back to the flat for port.  I think it was almost 2am when I got to bed.

Work the next day is something of a hazy blur.  Clearly I am too old to be out partying on a work night.

Tomorrow I am going out for lunch, and then our Gloucestershire mates are coming over in the evening (hopefully minus the garden-trashing spaniels) so I will have to knock off early to get home in time to see them.

And then, after that, it's my last day EVER on Monday next week.  Blimey.

Other news:  We've got a fucking mole in the garden. 

Not in the lawn.  Not in the flowerbeds. Not even in the bit behind the shed.   No.  He has made his little moley home in the middle of our flourishing vegetable bed. 

Bastard. 

He's been disrupting our radishes.

His days are numbered.