There was something interesting in the way that Herr Dinners had written a post today, and then I made myself a cheese sandwich, lie down and started a bit of a snooze and started dreaming...
Camie really wanted to go to England to visit Mr. Dinners, and I wanted to give her a gift to celebrate the arrival of Camie 2: The Offspring. I was able to scrounge up a two-seat Me-109 German fighter at a rummage sale, which I only agreed to get if the owner were able to attach an air-to-air refueling probe onto it, which they did. My price? Only a half-pint of blood. Off to England we flew, hitting a US tanker only twice on the way over!
We were the only ones able to land at Heathrow, because we had no hair gel on us. Camie had chosen to style her hair like John Entwhistle circa 1965, and my hairs are individually named, so no gel is required. We were able to park our plane in 'the Nazi terminal.' A policeman came out to meet us; he was the only person we saw. His name? I swear to God -- Dickhead Bobbie.
Dickhead Bobbie wanted to know who we had come to see, and when we said we were looking for FourDinners, who actually works here, he said, "Yessir, you want to head towards the Cotswalds, you do."
"Yes sir, by law all airport workers are required to live in the Cotswalds."
"Is that nearby?"
"Oh no, it's quite far. You'll be needing a Range Rover, sir."
"We don't have one, Mr. Bobbie, is it?"
"Just Dickhead will do, sir. I'll fetch one for you, sir, just a minute." He then walked out into busy traffic, found a Range Rover with 6 Arabic men inside, pulled them over, beat the stuffing out of them, gave us their car, and handstamped them 'to France.' SAS men took them out of the country. We thanked Dickhead and drove off.
We headed towards FourDinners place in the Cotswalds, with our own SAS man on the roof of the Range Rover who had a shotgun and a sniper rifle. His job was to pop the occasional Welsh or Scotsman who would randomly appear like grouse, and generally be a distraction from proper tourists such as ourselves.
We finally arrived at what looked like several dozen shipping crates just scattered about in a very lovely country setting. But when we went inside the place seemed huge, complete with Georgian furniture, Copley and Turner paintings, wonderful design throughout. FourDinners appeared, looking like a cross between Shane McGowan and Alistaire Cooke. I asked where the family was, and he said "They wouldn't be caught dead in a dump like this. They live near the airport" He invited us to the local pub.
The pub was an ingenious place; all beer was brewed on the roof, and feed down below via plastic tubes, which were everywhere, so you just had to open the tap and get your own beer, including a brew that expectant mothers could get sloshed on without negative consequences to the baby! No matter where I turned I was able to find a plastic tube with The Exact Beer I Wanted, and in the right quantities. We were quite happy, but the food wasn't something I would feed to hogs! Camie was able to explain the glories of The Bloomin' Onion, and I showed off my fajita making skills. We even taught them to make a deliberately bad kind of fish and chips, just so Camie's husbands' brother would show up on his birthday! We strung little chili lights throughout the bar.
And then...when we were about to leave...my phone rang, ending my reverie...but perhaps I will return to it.