BRAPA - Driving Homerton for Christmas / Wanstead Beyond (Part 2 of 2)

Bloke pretends to be shopmobility scooter in hope it'll make pub more amazing

1426 / 2399.  George, Wanstead

Alas, it was more 'smells of rear' than 'sounds of Chris Rea' as I yanked the door open to the huge well established Wetherspoons, which felt rather grubby, on Tuesday afternoon last week.  I'd already seen a bloke sat in the floor outside, scribbling in a notepad, hood up, flask of weak lemon drink in bag.  With the pub directly opposite the station, I wondered if this was some elaborate trainspotter who liked having a back rest.  There are so many London 'Spoons in the GBG, I always feel it is a good idea to get at least one ticked off on each visit, two if you are feeling brave.  Unless you designate yourself a 'Spoons day and do six, and whilst I don't dislike the chain as much as say, Tristan Fortescue-Smyth, I'm not about the organise a day like that!  As a smiley barmaid served me a vanilla cream festive ale which just tasted like a pint of smooth, a bloke next to me patted his beergut and exclaimed "it all goes here by the time you turn 40 .... my wife let herself go, so why should I bother anymore?"  MERRY CHRISTMAS!  The bloke he was telling shuffled off in the other direction, I did the same, to a raise area which smelt suspiciously of wee and stewed veg.  Tempting to try and make a connection between this and the pensioners Christmas dinner happening in the main floor space, but it smelt stronger in the area where I was sat (no it wasn't me!)  A new mousy barmaid was being shown the ropes by a scary giant one,  but I couldn't see much due to Xmas decorations blocking my view.  There was a demonic old chair, one of those I think you get pregnant in just by sitting in it.  There's one in Nottingham, and Scunthorpe I believe.  Still, I guess for post-dinner entertainment for the oldies, it beat the usual charades.  

Time now for one of the harder remaining East London ticks.  In fact if you extrapolate London pub ticking into Cumbrian terms, this was very much Near Sawrey.  Not sure I did it very sensibly either, going on this long winded bit of the Central Line which took me past fictional places like Chigwell and Grange Hill, when I'd probably have been better going back one stop to Leytonstone and straight up.

Woodford station was about a 15 minute walk from the pub, and it was dark and raining by now but on the plus side, there was a nice church and some green bits so I could have a pee in the bushes, a rarity for London and a sign how Essexy it was all getting.  

1427 / 2400.  Travellers Friend, Woodford Green

The weakest pub of the night, and the week, this pub managed to offer a 'worst of all worlds' in trying to make the classic pub faux pas of 'catering for all'.  All a bit galling when you rarely have to work so hard for a London pub tick!  Loud local nobheads to the left had voices which echoed around the soulless building, the barmaid of advancing years was a real Columbo, acted all dithery but was probably the most switched on person in the whole pub. I ordered a pint of 'Spiv' cos I wanted to say the word, and it was exactly the reason why people sneer at London beer - tepid, half dead, increasingly cloudy, shite glass, it tasted of sweaty socks and self righteousness.  A dog which I named 'Frazier Campbell' slurped it's way through a huge bowl of water, and then its jolly owner with sight difficulties demanded it had more, and it got better service than any human.  Greedy bastard!  I sat towards the back of the pub, where I series of non smiling staff appeared through a back door.  The pub smelt either of a really underdone pastry, or play doh.  I tried to see what a couple were eating just near me, but accidentally made eye contact so smiled weakly, strangely hearing the voice of Martin Taylor in my head telling me off for watching people eat.  This pub had a strange effect on me!

Still regretting my ale choice 5 days later!

Trying to kill me with brazil nuts I see

Frazier and owner having a slurp

Probably eating play doh, and a really dull pint

I battled my way back across Woodford for the Tube station, and changed at Stratford for Homerton where my remaining two ticks of the night were, and my last on page 290 of the GBG if you have your Beer Guide and highlighter pen ready, and are ticking this interactively with me - a fun game for all the family!  

1428 / 2401.  Adam & Eve, Homerton

Well would you Adam n Eve it?  My pub of the day was this one, a really grand interior and all dark and smokey within.  Very young and trendy, busy for a wet Tuesday evening, but experience tells me that often leaves room for welcoming staff and good ale, and that's what I found here thanks to afro-dude (who even asked me if I was having a good day and seemed to mean it!) and Five Points, their ales never seem to let me down.   Because I'm secretly young and awesome, I joined some Christmassy beards and Twumpers in this raised area, but a young lady arrived, somehow wedged herself in behind me, and when her friend arrived with the most giant rucksack known to man, or woman (it put the BRAPA bag to shame), there was much seat rearranging and awkward stilted apologies and suddenly I was pinned between seat and railings.  I think one of the barmaids tried to respond to my S.O.S. , as she passed a tealight through the railings.  Errrm, extra atmosphere isn't really  what I need in this situation!  So I just accepted my fate and thought, if I die here, it isn't a bad way to go.  I did finally manage to prise my battered corpse from the depths, and went in search of my final pub of tonight. 

Just down the street, I arrived, but just as I squared up to take the outdoor photo, the battery on my phone went and this was to set the scene for a bit of an unlucky pub for BRAPA .......

I had to go back outside mid-pint to take this photo!

1429 / 2402.  Chesham Arms, Homerton

Not that I'd have particularly enjoyed this pub even in prime circumstances, it was your classic London pub in many ways, had more of a North or Central vibe than an East one if I'm being honest.  It was heaving, took me a good while to get my pint of that sweet Milk Stout from Bristol, but I was in the mood for a dark one and couldn't see too clearly what else was on.  A quick reccy of the pub told be space was at a premium, somehow there was even twildlife playing amongst their mothers feet to the left, which seemed even wronger than usual in a busy evening pub situation.  So I edged back towards and perched on a radiator next to a long haired lover from Liverpool Street and tried to take what us pub blogging photo experts call an 'establishing shot' into the middle distance, nothing in particular, just a pub scene to capture the essence,  but too crowded with bodies (but not Boddies) so gave up.  But then LHLFLS tells me off, not cos he's on a moral crusade, just he's worried he'd be in it.  Told him I'd not taken even one (if I had have, he'd not've been in it anyway!), explained my blog, but he didn't believe me and demanded to see my recent photos.  When he'd satisfied himself I was being truthful, it was too awkward for him to remain and he left stage right with his remaining half pint, but did have the grace to say 'good luck with your blog' out of the corner of the bitterest side of his mouth, and I never saw him again.  Suddenly I had a seat!  Hurrah.  Okay, so Spaniards kept barging in to me and apologising, and a rubbish Milk Tray man vaulted in with a huge pizza for some ladies to my right.  If I stare longingly at it, will they offer me a slice?  I'd finished my snacks and was famished.  But then I heard that ghostly RM voice again "don't watch people whilst they are eating!"  And THEN, to top it off, I realised my train was at 19:27 and not 20:27.  Nooooo! A traumatic experience.

The type of shot I was trying to take pre-bloke

Gizza bit .... pleeeeeeeaaaase!

Strategically placed highlighter to look like I've finished page, but it's covering Limehouse

Oh well, I got home eventually!  A mixed day but five more good ticks, only nine left in East London and two of these will be done Saturday (just gone), two in early Jan.   That'll leave just 5, two Wetherspoons, the closed Gidea Park micro, Upminster and Rainham. 

Probably won't get chance to tell you about Saturday's adventure until after Christmas so have a great one all, thanks for reading, oh and of course we've got the "BRAPA Year End Awards" coming up on NYE night so look out for that one, I promise to write it drunk.

Si

BRAPA - Getting a Bit too Gidea This Christmas Time Makes You Ill(ford) - Part 1 of 2

If there is one day of the year I'd choose not to venture to the pub, a pub, or any pub, it is tonight.  "Mad Friday". Friday before Christmas.   So instead, I sit here with a nice cup of Earl Grey (tea, not a Bergamot IPA, I'm not a monster) and two fig rolls (I know how to live) trying to piece together last Tuesday in East London from a series of drunken scribbles and fuzzy hasty photos. 

It all started gently enough, as I headed to Gidea Park from Kings Cross via Stratford.  As I swiped out at the station, a cat who I named Oyster, was perched, arse on card reader.  The two guards, who'd obviously not been on Twitter in 2018, were trying to assign it a gender. 

Well this gave me reason to smile, and a walk down a leafy suburban street past some cheerful old ditherers and signs like the below were giving me reason to believe that the micropub I was aiming for was going to be a great experience, full of well being:

After all, I'd been to Gidea Park once before and visited the delightful Ship with Dad and Tom a couple of years ago.  Soon, I spied the pub just around the corner:

Hmmm, doesn't look too lively, but then these places never do Tuesday lunchtime!

 But my early sense of well being was shattered as the pub had recently changed opening hours to open later Monday-Wednesday.  Nooooooo!  How unlucky can you get? 

Nothing to do but take a deep breath and walk back to the station, where I passed the cat trotting behind an old bloke.  Had it been waiting for owner to return?  As it went into a different driveway to sniff around, the man shouted 'KEVIN'.  Kevin?  Not even Oyster?  Oh, my Gidea Park dreams were totally in tatters by now.

Much later in the day, the brilliantly always on the ball SE London CAMRA had seen this on Twitter and alerted the Gidea Park micropub to my misfortune, and I received such a nice reply and apology.  AND the bloke was called Trevor.  I know 3 Trevor's, all very likeable chaps.  And let's be honest, a schoolboy error on my part not to double check WhatPub which HAD been updated.

On the plus side, Ilford was only a few stops away where it had a fabled pub Martin Taylor had been telling me weird and wonderful things about. 

Despite the train being about 500 carriages long, a crazy bloke with a bad cough and a local radio station blaring out of a stereo came and sat right near me.  All the young ladies including Polish Sally Phillips and Romford Rebel Wilson got up and moved, leaving me alone with him.  Though I must admit, when 'It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year' started playing from his stereo, his menace diminished somewhat.  He got off at Ilford, he'd have fitted in perfectly in the next pub.

Seems fitting the pub is right next to Paddy Power

Not enough Irish pubs in the GBG!

1425 / 2398.  Jono's, Ilford

And nothing to do with an iconic beer blogger of the same name I hear a lot about, Jono's was a delightfully dark and dingy boozer with a top atmosphere, nice dark wood, mirrors, tiles, that sort of thing.  Even on a Tuesday early afternoon, it was choked to the gills with cockney lager drinkers saying facking mappets so I hid at the end bar where the two beers, Castle Rock Harvest Pale & St Austell Tribute (now a seasonal guest in the most exciting ale change in here probably witnessed in centuries) were.  As if it display her barmaidly credentials and the no nonsense nature of the pub, she shouted across to me and a Fosters drinking German local, served us in conjunction, took money off us together, gave change together.   I was determined not to linger here so I could get back on track after a slow start to the day, but this was easily a place you could get settled, even if I was back to back with a very stern bulbous nose who went to the bar 3 times in the 27.5 minutes I was here!  All that could pacify the locals was piped Johnny Mathis doing 'When a Child is Born', though I must admit I can only hear the Amateur Transplants version of it* now!    Finally the day was up and running, and I headed back to the station, bound for Wanstead.

And a decent pint it was too

View to the bar inc German on right

Guinness ceiling decor

As close as I dared go to the scary main bar!

* "A baby boy, pops out caked in shit

And Mary screams, it feels like something split

The wise men come in, and confirm she's badly torn

That's what you get, when a child is born."

And I'll get part two of my blog to you, featuring Wanstead, Woodford Green and two Homerton pubs, hopefully by lunchtime on Sunday.  For now, to prepare for tomorrow's London return, where I'm doing two East London pubs and then 4 North London ones all being well.  But a bit scared cos on the Grand Central with Sunderland fans travelling to and from Pompey so that should be fun.

See you on Twitter tomorrow morning, or here on Sunday.  Happy weekend all!

Si

BRAPA - We'll Have a Cambridge Blue Moon Christmas (But Green is the Colour)

Halfway through Saturday then and I was already sobering up in the Taylor Lounge (not a micropub) with a good strong cuppa, reflecting that this cosy spot is very much the drunk tank of the Fens.  As Canadian(?) 70's Christmas tunes soothed me even more, and awesome teenagers ran around slamming doors, listening to sk8 rock and making vague promises about trying hard in mock exams, it was soon time to get back on t'track towards Cambridge proper where I had pubs aplenty to do.  Yes, I'd almost forgotten I was on a BRAPA day, you know, that thing where I tick pubs and judge everything! 

Christine 'Mrs RM' Taylor joined us for what would be her official BRAPA debut (she came to the Sun in Waterbeach when I did it, but it was only a pre-emptive then so didn't really count as there was nothing to highlight in a book).  She may soon have been regretting her decision as the icy rain and gusty winds lashed into our faces as we boarded the busy Waterbeach Express (a bit like the Polar Express but colder and more full of idiots).  A quick check of the Hull City score, 2-0 up after 29 mins, whatttt??  I blurted out the great news to CT but she looked un-enthused as most people are when I talk Hull City.

The walk to the first pub wasn't far, but just as painful, I couldn't hold my hood up and my hands were blocks of ice.  Of course, the pub had to be at the bottom of an unlikely cul-de-sac and poor Martin was dying for a pee so sped off around the corner like a man possessed.  The little complex this bar was in was like the kind of place your fave gypsies keep the tastiest chickens .......

Martin needs the loo.  Watch him go! (not literally)

1423 / 2396.  Calverley's Brewery Tap, Cambridge

You had to slide the door to get into this oh so basic little bar (door handles are sooooo 2017), it felt a bit like going into a shed and there were so many lurkers, it was hard to tell who was drinking and who was simply sheltering.  The bar, if you can call it that, was right there, and Martin being the expert told us what to drink.  "It might be card only" whispered Martin, and there were four of them all lined up looking like desperate Whitechapel wenches vying for position hoping you'd insert your Goldcard into their slot.  In all the mayhem,  it almost passed me by how much the drinkers in here were caricatures of 2018 Brewery Tap regulars.  "Uh oh, my 'zine is out on the same day is yours!" said a young lady to the beardo serving me.  "How much is yours, mine will be £1.25?" he replied.  "Ouch!  Mine is £3.50" she replied, before adding that it came as part of a meal deal or something insanely quirky befitting the persona she'd created for herself.  What were these 'zines?  What are they about?  I'd love to have known, but this wasn't the type of place were any old randomer could engage the cool kids in convo.  We sat down towards the back on these benches and Christine said what I was thinking, this is somehow a nice place to have a drink in.  I don't know how, when you look at it from afar, but it really works!  It was cosy, happy, the beer was fantastic btw, and as Martin says, how often when they brew their own stuff at places like this it is dire, but the porter was cracking.  Might sound silly but it was almost so pretentious, it had gone the full 360 degrees and totally lacked any pretension.  Owl on the glass too, bonus point, and when I queried whether this was the pub on the front of the GBG, a member of staff jumped in and gave us a potted history about the building that absolutely no one had asked for, but was still appreciated.  And then came the highlight of the day (excuse the pun) as Christine highlighted the GBG and declared 'green' as the superior highlighting colour!  Hurrah.  It then all turned into the famous Eastenders Christmas Special of 1986 as Martin almost word for word quoted Dirty Den.  "This, my sweet, is a letter from my solicitor telling you that your husband has filed a petition for divorce."  

The weather wasn't letting up and the fabled pizza van which sits outside when the weather is better than this offering amazing pizza to all was nowhere in sight.  Martin thought it might be nice to 'break our journey' to the next BRAPA tick with a visit to an old fave ..... so we did.

Yes, The Cambridge Blue.  I picked this out as a pre-match Hull City pub on 7th Aug 2002.  Me and Dad liked it so much, we returned 25th Aug 2003.  The modern day BRAPA is horrified at such a revisit, but I was young and naive then.  An old lady said I had to tell her how to pull real ale cos she wasn't an expert, we sat outside, it said 'don't smoke near the rabbits', 'don't feed the animals with apples falling from the tree' and I had a cracking plate of liver n mash.  Oh and Hull City won both games.

So this was my first visit and over 15 years and wow, what a pub!  Felt a lot nicer inside these days, the crummy conservatory was gone and airy feel vanished, better beers and all round a very enjoyable pint.  And the news coming through Hull City had won, a lucky pub this too! 

Back out into the harsh conditions and soon we were at 5pm opener, hence why we were happy to hang about a bit, the Blue Moon .....

I thought I'd seen an  actual Blue Moon but it was actually the beer affecting me again.

1424 / 2397.  Blue Moon, Cambridge

What with the neon lights and banging music, my first instinct was 'bloody 'ell, turn it down a notch' but then I realised there was a live gig on, and the band list in the loo confirmed they'd been open all afternoon so we really could've come here sooner, not that I'd want to have missed the superior 'Blue'.   Well, 'Salamander' (unless it was Watford themed metal band 'For the Hornets' but the guy just didn't look Elton John enough) were giving it their all but it looked like you had to pay to get into a separate section so we didn't really try.   Somewhat annoyingly for me, the beers all seemed to be from Brew York, probably one of those Twap Twakeovers the beer bods so love.  Christine of course, put us to shame and showed how it should be done with the 8.7% Don Peregrine whilst I no doubt got tiddly on the 2.5% Debaser.  Not a huge fan of Brew York but certainly seemed great ales today.   We sat at these low black leather settees, I kept sticking to it, but only in a good way and no one else did anything interesting.

Rock off!

If you look closely, you can see Salamander (and I don't mean the West Yorks brewer haha!)

Still time on the clock so Martin's next move for us was even better than the Cambridge Blue bonus as we got a great pre-emptive tick in called the Alexandra Arms.   Well listen up Cambridge TWAMRA, you need to get this pub in the 2019 GBG.  The Oakham Citra was absolutely fabulous quality.  Pint of the Day.  And how often can you say that on your 7th pint of the day when your palette is shot to smithereens?  Very rarely I'd say.  Nice cosy pub, friendly, perhaps lacking a tiny bit of character of some of the others but as people like to remind me, it IS a beer guide, and if I think of some of the bang average Cambridge pints I've had in the summer in the likes of Geldart, Haymakers and Flying Pig (though the latter was better), I'd get it in the reckoning.  Oh, and to prove how amazing Martin & Christine are, they got two lots of burger and chips and cut it three ways so I could share.  So comfy, nearly missed train and had to run, they ran with me, Martin got me ticket and apparently was shouting "SIMON, SIMON" in the centre of the station but I'd already legged it to just make the connection to Peterborough.

Phew, a crazy end to a wonderful day, great hospitality, and now only NINE Cambs pubs to do, 5 in Jan and the other 4 sporadically when I get the chance!  And then I can get focused on Cumbria and Derbyshire.

Lots of love, Si

BRAPA - The Ely Twild Show (Part 1 of 2)

We all want to be Chris Packham in the 'Cambs Pub Ticking / Really Wild Show' analogy, but I'm probably more Michaela Strachan, or dare I say it, Nicola Davies in truth.  Martin Taylor must be Terry Nutkins,  which I guess means Christine Taylor is actually Chris Packham.  You, dear reader, will have to be Steve Backshall, whether you like it or not.

What IS he talking about now?

It was a bitterly cold morning in Ely as I arrived just before 11am for the first of my remaining 14 pub ticks in the county.  'Bitter' isn't a word you see associated with real ale much any more cos it sounds like something old men drink, so I guess we should really call this weather 'Hop Forward' whatever that means.

It felt a far cry from my warm April visit when I ticked off two pubs, the Drayman's Son Micropub and the Prince Albert, but like all good towns, it had added something new to force my return.  The Cathedral was still standing:

And I skirted around it and the main shopping drag to find our pub across the road:

Retrospective 'entrance' photo on my way out!

1420 / 2393.  Townhouse Pub, Ely

Quite a spacious place, guess it did feel like a 'town house' in some ways if you ignore the terrible bookcase wallpaper, strange brickwork and totally unnecessary conservatory style back bit.  There was an ale on called 'Tundra' so I ordered that, trying to make a joke to the veteran barman about it being fitting in the climate.  He laughed mirthlessly, my comment deserved no better in truth.  He had a wrist support, possibly from too much pint pulling.  I learned Ely TWAMRA were due in town later for their annual xmas knees up, and from what I hear, they are a strange bunch who's calendar revolves around an obsession with their breakaway beer festival from the Cambridge one, the bloody renegades!  I sat in the front room, it felt a bit more 'pubby' with a degree or two more warmth, and a bar billiards table.  Martin Taylor arrived and ordered a coffee, which came in a clear glass, and looked more like bovril, or just gravy in truth but he nibbled those pointless little biscuits you get with such things, and we chatted about Brentford, Belgian Blue and other B themed things.   Not a bad starter pub, bit ordinary but eminently a nicer place to drink than the three I'd done on Wednesday! 

Glass of gravy anyone?

Just really no!

Like the chauffeur of the year he (probably) is, the Mart-Mobile was parked not far away and we sped off to Little Downham across flattest flat Fenland for a pub which had been shut on my previous visit here back in April, 3pm on a Saturday, possibly because the Sunderland supporting landlord was sulking about impending relegation, or so sources told me at the time.  All that was left to do was talk to a man from March with a horse, like you do.  

The ancient inn sign was still creaking on its hinges in the wind, but this time, there was a light on and the curtains were only slightly drawn.  Message to pubs : You can run but you can't hide, BRAPA will track you down! 

1421 / 2394.  Plough, Little Downham

It wasn't my most graceful pub entrance, as the door split into two, the highest section separating first, the strong wind made all the pieces of paper on the noticeboard flutter, and they hit a bald bloke in the face.  I apologised but he told me I wasn't responsible for the weather, which was very decent of him considering he was the moody Mr Sunderland I'd been told about.  I was served Bath Gem by his Thai Bride, in a woolly hat (I'd been in warmer pubs, the fire struggling to get going) who then controlled a Thai child (not a twild really, he was a great lad) called Jayden(?) who despite his youthful years, was being taught how to pull pints by his Mum.  Very cute, "ahah, we start 'em young in 'ere" said the landlord, about the closest anyone got to properly engaging with me in here.  Otherwise, the locals were chatting about a trip to Sutton like it was on a different planet, and when I later learned there's actually a Cambs village called Sutton, it could've been seen as even more tragic.  The pub itself was as much of a gem as the beer I was drinking,  some nice stained glass and old features, gorgeous smell of rice, and I was told where the bogs were before even I'd really made up my mind I was looking for them in a great psychic ending to my time here.

A classic Cambs village pub scene

Bit of a fire fail in here

The pub being good

The beermats had an Asian twist

Action shot 1 of pint pulling lesson

Action shot 2

Martin had braved the cold and gone for a walk, having had several recce trips to the Plough this year, but he was more than up for pub three, in the village of Rampton.  

First, we took a quick detour to one of the most mysterious pubs in the UK, the King's Head (just to peer in through the window), can't remember which village it is in but it doesn't feature on WhatPub, there's no record of it on the internet, yet it does exist and opens very occasionally, problem is, they never tell you when.  So imagine Martin's delight on seeing a sign in the window saying they are open next Friday evening!  The pub sign is even more ancient than the Plough in Little Downham, but looking in through the window, looks quite rubbish actually.

Rampton then, where Sebastian Faulks set the novel Engleby.  My Dad once compared me to Engleby, the bloke, but when my sister read it, she said that was quite harsh, even on me!

Now you know a pub is going to be shite when instead of having a picture of a Black Horse, they have the letters 'BH', AND you can see a man with a waistcoat in the window stuffing his face......

After some good pub signage, this places effort was embarrassing

1422 / 2395.  Black Horse, Rampton

And the entrance woe theme continued.  A sign on the front door said 'use the side door', but when I pushed it, it was being weighted down by a fake old Scrumpy pump as the door doesn't close properly when it is windy.  That might be ok if you were in some ancient grade II listed heritage untouched jewel of centuries past, but when you are in bland purgatory, it is harder to accept.  Especially as the locals at the bar and their super judgey hound tried to make it we should've known that!  And what's more, where the eff were the ales?  This pub was seriously winding me up.  Through to the other room then when Mr Waistcoat and his overly privileged feeders stuffed scampi into their gobs like Jabba the Hut and his family, glaring up at me like "ugh, drinkers, how quaint!"  But on the plus side, the ale came straight from the barrel, wasn't Greene King, was top quality, and it was nice to see they separated drinkers in one room and diners in the other, even if you had to go into the dining area to properly see the ale but never mind!   A version of "Joy to the World" was STILL playing (must be the 20 minute extended version) as RM brought the pint and a half through on a tray like some German beer wench, and the door flew open a couple more times.  RM put my antagonism here down to fact I'd had three pints, probably right, and ordered me back to Waterbeach for a 3pm cup of tea sobering up session!

Ales on a tray

Judgiest hound in Christendom

Worst doorstop in Christendom

More warming than Little Downham, but only just

Don't get mad Si, focus on the lovely kittens!

So back to Chez Taylor then before we resumed the pubbing in Cambridge with a BRAPA debutant, some abysmal weather, a pre-emptive, and a re-visit.  Join me tomorrow for tales of that one.  

Si