Sunday dawned bright (Did it? I can't remember. Wait a minute. Yes it did.
Sunny but cold, so there you go) and the Siete Magnifico gathered for one
last drag of the collective cigarette in the beautiful gardens of the
Pickwick Guest House, before our final (for the time being) group
breakfast.

In honour of that momentous, and sad, occasion, some of our number broke
the habit of a short break and ordered a different breakfast. Big Al and I,
however, remained faithful to our original selection. Me, because I don't
much like fried breakfasts. Al, because there was nothing left to change
to.

Were we sombre that Sunday morning? I doubt it. It is not the way of the
Seven to grieve for what is gone, or soon to be gone anyway. We look
forward with heads held high, anticipating the time when we will once
again, en masse, stumble over pretty little English sheep, but I digress.
The day is young and there is still time for doing stuff. 

Sadly we were about to lose our Smudger. Bobbie was to spend a few days
with her sister, a sister who was arriving at eleven to whisk our sister in
crime away up North.

The meeting place of the day turned out to be the Peartree Park 'n' Ride
car park. Salubrious or what? Anyway, there was a minor snag. 

There are in fact two Park and ride car parks on the outskirts of Oxford.
Now which one was Peartree? By the time we'd loaded the cars and filled up
with petrol, there was barely enough time to get to one car park by eleven,
let alone find it was the wrong one and have to drive right across town to
the other one. Anyway, we got lucky. 

The one we chose to head for turned out to be the right one, so with tears
in our eyes, we handed Bobbie over to the safe keeping of her sister, and
we waved them away towards, well, wherever they were going. Nobody tells me
anything.

Down to six and down to Hampshire.

The residue of 'our gang' would spend what there was left of Sunday, in
deepest Hampshire as the guest of your correspondent and his fair wife
Wendy. The mini-convoy screamed down the A34, passing sheep of varying
prettiness, until we arrived at Junction 7 of the M27. 

Incidentally (1), the A34 runs into the M3 which in turn runs into the M27.
At Junction 7 is Sainsburys.

Incidentally (2), For non-Brits. Sainsbury's is a large supermarket.

The plan was to send a small band of brave souls to obtain such food as was
deemed necessary to feed the Six. Bread and cheese and ham. Stuff like
that. The small band grew larger until only Al and me were left guarding
the cars, so we listened to the motor racing on the radio. Time drifted.
Barrichello led the race. I told Al, it wouldn't last. It didn't. The small
band returned. We drove home. We ate.

Now this was rather neat. All these nice folks in our house eating and
laughing, and just being good company. Methinks there is room for a repeat
at some future time, we'll see.

Tours of the house were conducted (free tours, I might add). One or two
even ventured into this very room, but ran screaming back to the safety of
the lounge or the back yard. And then without further ado, we went to the
seaside.

I live about four miles from the sea (It can't be much more, I used to
cycle there) and it seemed too good a chance to pass up. A trip to the
seaside for ice cream.

Meon beach is not sandy. There was no chance of building sand castles,
which was an obvious disappointment to one or two of our members but we had
fun playing with the stones and trying to find ones that look like things
(other than stones).

We bought our ice creams and we posed for photographs. I pointed out the
Isle of wight - "Over there is the Isle of Wight". I indicated such
wondrous sights as the power station and the refinery.

I pointed thataway and said if you go over the horizon a few miles and turn
right, you'll find Bobbie Smith's house. I didn't mention that if you go
too many miles over the horizon and turn right, you'll find Iceland. They
wouldn't have been interested.

The shadows lengthened and it was time to go. Time for the farewell to end
them all (as far as me and she were concerned - other farewells would take
place the following day).

I drove to the motorway, just to help Al get his bearings.  I drove along
the motorway and waved them past. Much waving and horn blowing brought a
smile to my face, and then the Shogun was away back towards Oxford. We
turned off at the next junction. and they were gone.

-- 
Mick