Luckily, my old chum Bunty knew a chap and sourced a ticket on this year’s spiffing Tweed Run for yours truly. It’s the 8th edition and rumour has it they sold out in 30 seconds flat! Higgins worked like a Trojan to prepare the velocipede, dusted down the Tweeds and packed a damn fine hamper to boot. Good old Higgins.
The jolly canter started in one of those less salubrious parts of Town that Uncle Timmy would disappear to of a weekend. Islington, I think it’s called. Still, we were soon off and it wasn’t long before we were back on the more familiar turf of the West End.
Sadly I was caught behind one of those robust, dynamic girls with the muscles of a welterweight and the laugh like the squadron of cavalry charging over a tin bridge. Managed to dodge her as we came into Bloomsbury for some much needed refreshments in Tavistock Square. Damned fine chaps had put on a spread that would have kept even Fruity Biffen happy. Down the red lane, what!
It was there that I spotted a woman with a beaky nose, tight thin lips, and an eye that could have been used for splitting logs in the teak forests of Borneo. Cripes! It was only Aunt Daphne and she was haranguing a poor chap about having to form a queue. Hell, it is well known, has no fury like a woman who wants her tea and can’t get it.
Took a dive into the nearest bush and who should I find there but ‘Eggy’ Egbert Wedge! Also hiding apparently, but he from a flaming haired Amazon whose shrill voice could be heard echoing around the square, “Eggy! Eggy darling, where have you got to?” I agreed with Eggy’s assessment of the situation. “Red hair, in my opinion, sir is dangerous.”
More pootling along brought us to the welcome spot of Kensington Gardens where Eggy, the silly chump, realized he’d left his hamper behind. I thought Higgins had packed enough to stuff a squadron, but it’s not for nothing that Eggy has the appearance of a man poured into his clothes and forgotten when to say ‘when!’ After wolfing down most of the cucumber sandwiches and the best part of the bottle of fizz, the blighter disappeared with some gal with more curves than a scenic railway.
Still, I was happy to be back on my rather snazzy velocipede, tootling through Parliament Square, over the bridge for a brief sojourn on the left bank and it wasn’t long before we found ourselves back at square one by Bourne & Hollingsworth’s fine establishment. I picked up a rather swanky new waistcoat from the chaps at Cordings. Topper of a gal gave even me a discount!
Ah, the Tweed run! What’s the use of a great city having temptations if fellows don’t yield to them?
(With apologies to PG Wodehouse)