The things you see when you don't have a shotgun.
I spent the day at Henley. It's not even regatta week yet and they're already lining up to be fish bait. Now I'm no nautical expert but even if I'd been lobotomised with a rusty saw blade, I'd take it as a given that you shouldn't put your foot on a skiff when it isn't moored to the jetty. Did he squeal! A perfect set of splits and amazingly he didn't even drop his Pimms, until he disapeared into the drink, that was. It doesn't auger well for any future procreation, but somehow I think the gene pool might benefit.
Then some drunken oaf named Simon or Rodney, presumably, offered me five hundred quid to drive him into London. It was tempting but I doubt the boss would have been amused especially as he hurled industrial weight chunks over the bonnet of a car further down the car park about twenty seconds after I reluctantly said no.
Got some good writing in, though. I've already begun selecting publishers and agents who aren't heartily sick of my pitiful attempts to woo them. This time I'm not going to stop until I've found one.