Nigel the curate
Had Nigel the curate and his wife, Rilla, over to supper last night.
“Come at six thirty,” I blithely said, “so that we can eat at seven.”
But this was Nigel, so at twenty-past six we got a call. “What time did you say? Oh! Well, it may be nearer to seven than six-thirty.”
So there we sat. The clock crept round to seven, ten-past, twenty-past. At twenty-five-past, we got another call.
“I’m standing outside the pub. How do I get to you from here?”
So I gave directions and eventually they arrived, soaking wet as it had been raining all evening.
To be fair, it wasn’t entirely their fault, as there were roadworks, they had been diverted and got lost. And naturally had neither a map nor satnav with them.
Anyway, all was forgiven the moment they arrived because they’re such good company. The meal was good, the wine flowed freely, and Nigel kept us in stitches relating tales from his student days. He’s a very good actor, and very funny.
So a good time was had by all, except that Ed didn’t sleep well afterwards.
“We ate too late,” he said.