A garden toast

Old friends from East Anglia were on a Wales and West tour, and spent last night with us. It was their wedding anniversary, for which they very decently supplied their own champagne. The air was warm enough to drink it in the garden, but the wind too gusty for supper outside. Anyway, we would have missed the heroics of Mario Balotelli.

Johnny and I looked at my album which included the week we were both together in Lourdes 39 years ago: he, always immaculately turned out, was there wearing the very same jacket as in this photograph, and even now hardly looks more than a year older.