hot young hogs

We went to the Hunt's annual Hog Roast, this year featuring wigs. Not that the wigs stayed on for long because the sun actually came out. So did the wasps, mind you, and, not having had much opportunity to socialise this Summer, they were over-attentive to say the least. But it all went off very well. I sat at a table with Kevin and others, reminiscing about happy days of yesteryear. Like the time Trevor was threatened with a gun outside a Maidstone nightclub. And then there was Newquay which, it was agreed, just isn't the same anymore. I was there a month or so ago and all the clubgoers looked too young to be out on their own. No wonder they're always falling off cliffs. They haven't yet worked out that the land ends.

Of course the thing you really notice attending these things every year is that people are still having children. I thought it was just a brief craze, but it seems to be more popular than ever. I suppose it's fine if you enjoy having your amusing adult conversations continually interrupted by someone urgently demanding your attention, only to then inform you of something completely banal, like the fact that that thing over there is a cow. Then they do it again. And again. I suppose there must be compensations, but is it really worth it, just to keep the human race alive? Let the rats have a go instead.

I suppose they have their little individualities. Like Ian and Kathy's son James, who is preternaturally good at kicking a football. Although he also stops to stare at the sky every time a plane flies overhead, which could dent his prospects as a professional player.

Little Samuel goggled up at me (or possibly at nothing) from his pram, agitating his limbs. Mat accused me of thinking him 'ugly'. I said he just wasn't my type. It seemed the socially correct phrase. Not that I do think him ugly, of course - but my aesthetics do not yet embrace the capacity for (in Mat's phrase) 'projectile shitting'.

Dave took an interesting photo of a chicken.