I required assistance in taking down a forty foot ladder.
I gave a pre-arranged signal to the Lt-Col through the double glazing of the immense conservatory. He paused, fork midway to his mouth, whilst registering my presence in the garden. I acknowledged Mrs Lt-Col but she looked back blankly as if I was an escaped loonie, despite our previous conversations of a few months ago . The Lt-Col jumped to his feet and left the dining table, while the two invited guests turned around in their seats to look, obviously irritated by this uncalled for interruption to Sunday Lunch...by a tradesman?...Good Lord!
It was interesting to note that sectors remain of British society that still partake of The Sunday Lunch. My own memory of this venerable institution centre mainly on sitting alone with a bowl of "Eve's Pudding" after the rest of the table had been cleared. The specific instruction to leave a clean plate ensured a life long dislike of cooked apple desserts especially when flavoured with cloves...
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When my children lived at home they hated the Sunday lunch ritual, which we indulged in if my mother was coming round. Now, when they are here for the weekend, they demand it.
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