Mental cycle

Countdown to the summer trip is underway. Operation buttock bronze is in full swing and reports of the attendant earth tremors are coming in thick and fast. The French secret service, who already have a file on me as thick as a king Camembert, have been asking questions. My ample twin globes have been showing up on their satellite images. They had to come around and check I wasn’t harbouring any stolen Semtex H in my secret buttock chambers. I told them straight, ‘listen guys, unfortunately, these babies aren’t hollow.’ They disappeared in search of lenticular clouds shrouding UFOs.

The millet twins have cycled off into the distance, yodelling probably. We chomped through a goat cheese and olive pizza and quaffed rosé while watching them chew less than joyously on their spartan grains. They were on honeymoon. Surely, it’s got to get better for them from here on in? I really hope so, for their sake. She told me she got married in Goretex. They treated the whole wedding day as a triathlon. They ran to the church, swam to the reception and cycled to the honeymoon suite on top of an iceberg. I’m relieved I didn’t get an invite. I've only got one decent hat, and it's not rubber. And how did their Grannies cope? We also established that we don’t really know each other. That also came as a relief. Spouse used to know one of their training mates. He actually thought he was dead. Apparently, not. That’s if we take their word for it.

After they’d gone, Spouse rather charmingly told me he would leave me if I ever got that hard and gnarled. He likes me soft and yielding. Or flabby and wobbly, he added…rather less charmingly.

Talking of sporting types, Mark Cavendish is doing well, isn’t he? What is he on? Oh yes of course…a bike. Silly me. The French are smelling a Rosbif rat.