Cross posted from Ratboy, some moments of memory from a wonderful summer:

In the end, back at Warwick, I introduce myself to two distinctive girls, one with that London-iron twang, and the habit of nattering endlessly but entertainingly, (I don?t see much likelihood of many awkward silences in ?conversation? with her), and another one of these Mirandan fake American people- though this one has the decency of having an American accent. It turns out she lived in Brazil, Mexico and Canada, and then moved to England when she was eight. Old dipthongs die hard. And I think to myself, these people are nice. Inoffensive, a touch banal, but the kind of people who will get you through the day without any kind of life-shattering revelation or declaration of undying love. I?ve been feeling good about people all summer though, since in the pantheon of extraordinary post-Norway moments, this summer is right up there. I think I had more interaction with Norway people than with my school friends this summer, by quite some margin. And there were some teardrop moments- fragile, as soon lost as noticed, that will dwell in my mind as paradigms of satisfaction. Here?s ten.

1. With a tumble and a flick of the wrist, the master tactician, (except Nass) worked his side into a winning position. Ever the champion of the underdog, (captain of a nation of sheep and rugby players), he purred his way majestically into the nineties. But then, the tragic flaw prevented him from the glory of England?s total disgrace. He remembered he was an individual, and started playing protective of his own Nervous Ninety score. As a result, in this endlessly fascinating, individual versus team sport, he runs his partner out, before himself being dismissed on 99. Though England still get pounded to dust, it?s the funniest thing in years.

And in the meantime, overheard: ?It may be raining, but that bloke could fit the whole bloody village under his hat?. I chuckle gleefully, while Darz prepares for another hunt for David Gower with his binoculars.

2. No sign of rain this time. It was the spirit of the day, so alien to me, which was so intoxicating. It was like the whole madly fantastic affair had been organised by the Falling Overly One herself. Crazy kill-frenzy shots. Mediocre dance routines applauded to the rafters. Ample, sometimes over-ample food. Two matches which went into the Skinoftheteeth phase. Fish soup and butternut squashes at the house of my step-aunt, and lots of red wine. Not for the last time. How often is it that you capitalise on the best (weatherwise) day of the summer by doing the thing you enjoy most in the summer' When spontaneity works, it?s full cream delight.

3. Red wine you say' The evening starts with polite, almost demure conversation about Walmart and harmonicas. Then it becomes delightfully relaxed and unstressful. It was one of those occasions which works on its own marvellous simplicity. Just people, just talking. No frills, and yet, since there was nothing complicated to arrange, there was nothing to be anxious about. As ?The Litten Tree? blurs into the Rat and Parrot, the Hotel and the cellar bar, wine makes everything debilitatingly out of order, like A Tarantino film. Then green aftershock. I ask someone if they?re still serving. A train platform. Black out. From what I remember, a wonderful evening, made all the better by my chance to get to know Pete, and of course the brilliant company of Shulz and Darz.

4. Earlier, we?d played ?You?ll never walk alone? as people scurried under umbrellas and left the medieval jousters with suddenly dampened interest. I still can?t remember what the seventh commandment was, but it didn?t really matter. Three hours, for the record, is a long time to pad out music for, but if you have twenty five pieces and the ability to sight-read as a four-piece marginally better than shambolically, you can get through to your pecuniary reward. That Bobby Boy, just so nice and polite. Ditto, of course, the Boys Next Door.

Later, there were sea shanties and the premiere of both a sequel and Guiness and black. And the eau de femme would be in for quite a long summer, right through to?

5. Why Pete would choose to come all the way from Avebury still mystifies me with its randomness, but since he did, it was another lovely evening. In the room, the waiters came and went, a throwback to a Robert Altman film or a Jane Austen novel. What intrigued me was fitting together times and places, like one of those novels written from hundreds of different perspectives, (I heartily recommend ?Hotel World? by Ali Smith as a primer). How the life of someone I only met fleetingly, and as a cowboy in the summer of ?03, turned out to interconnect so oddly and importantly with mine. The fractal, almost snowflake logistic of it. The quintic equation. The map of Wiltshire, tangles in a Maypole dance of confusingly chaotic beauty.

About Wimbledon, I am quick to forget.

6. As the previous day smouldered into wetness, The Talbot played host to a landmark of a different kind from Edgbaston. We made it, just, with the sugar snap peas giving us the energy required to make the mad dash through Bristol Temple Meads. In the drizzle, we talked of wasps and trans-sexuals, using the parasols as umbrellas. It should have been awful. It was curiously brilliant.

Some afternoons, there?s no right for anyone to enjoy themselves, and the British just ?soldier on?. They don?t show the pouting fragility of the French or the confused Parade anger of the Americans, they just get on with it. This was one of those days. A rare opportunity to murble, and an even rarer one to come to Calne, made possible by Stephen?s stoic-ness. All that was missing was that little bit more flesh?

7. On one of those evenings which should by rights have been dreadful, we laughed carelessly. Three straws, one drink. It was that kind of meld. Another occasion where words were a barely necessary accompaniment to the same old rhythms. Steph has a disaster. We reach fast food. The movie is incredibly insipid, and though technically it?s well directed, it actually comes off looking very silly and has no internal thematic logic. But freeze that moment coming home on the train with Megan, with the vast vat of popcorn totally out of scale with the deserted train carriage, and almost stroking the conversation back and forth. Gentle pitter-patter, tittle-tattle. That feeling of never-oppressive heat; the soul of August.

8. Mr Hester, I presume. Let me introduce you to Mr Spontaneous. See what you can do together. And so we did Weymouth. One day?s notice, via the magic of the mobile phone machine, and messaging. Remind me never to try to do something similar again, since much more is likely to go wrong next time than it did on this occasion. Sensible train times. Warm enough to swim in the sea. Cool enough to walk up inclines without feeling sweatier than Jose Camacho in a sauna. And oh, the Pimms, and the magnificent way that everyone rose to the challenge of cricket, quintupling their aptitude in barely an hour. Plus, y?know, I got to bowl Steph with a dipping off-break, which is the kind of thing that our friendship was made for. What Miranda and Stephen?s was made for is another issue, but certainly guaranteed amusement, (and bounteous Scrabble defeat), was the perquisite for the rest of us, both pre and post squabbles.

9. Diddle-diddle DER DER DER, dum dum dum dum dum did a dum dee. DYER DER DER, dum deed a dum, da deed a dum dee. If you take only one thing from this evening, remember, Communism Never Happened. Also, there were refrigerated cockerels, hyper-aggressive cats, and a little bat type thing who kept saying ?ow? and ?wow? indiscriminately. And, to the agony of all concerned, Stephen and my falsetto. But how sunshine weakened to darkness, and the music played out over towards the white horse and rest of the West.

10 Everything under the sun put to rights, from environmental concerns to the sociological necessity for television in cliques, as we walked on a day when the rain held off from condensing into that most verdant of valleys, and the Avon flowed autumnally as if it always had and always would, strangely reassuringly. I was made to think and to exercise, and only occasionally nearly run over by a security vehicle.

I didn?t even manage to include the Orchestra Crash or the cricket at The Oval, let alone various small but memorable little moments. Rat Boy, I think I love you. Thanks everyone for the memories of what I think I may come to look back on, (with other aspects contributing, like my Father?s wedding, an amazingly weird and wonderful Call Centre Team and England?s domineering Test performances) as the Best. Summer. Ever.

TCH