Mini scotch eggs in the park

The weather was so nice, we decided to lunch al fresco in Green Park. Nothing at all to do with being cheapskates. Oh, no. That's why Dolores had been to Tesco. To get the mini scotch eggs and salt and vinegar crisps essential for a healthfood picnic.

Any of the parks. Other places I'd failed to take Dolores to. In our two years living in Swindon, we only went to London twice. That was my fault. I'd had enough of the city after a couple of years living there.

Green Park looked lovely on such a sunny and clement autumn day. We weren't the only diners. A couple of suits were tucking into sandwiches on the next bench. A squrrel, its tail longer than its body, cavorted erratically behind us. "I hope it doesn't attack us. A squirrel can break your arm with its tail." I like to alert Lexie to any possible danger. "Daaad, that's not true." But I spotted a glimmer of doubt in his eye. I wonder where he got his fear of chickens from? He'll cross the road to avoid walking past a Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet. Though maybe that isn't really so irrational.

I washed my sarnie down with a bottle of Old Speckled Hen. Did it taste like the draught version I'd had the day before? If I were an obsessive ticker, who wrote tasting notes for every beer that passed his lips, I might be able to answer that question. Unfortunately, I'm just a pisshead with a penchant for the past. When Andrew pointed out the unwise use of a clear glass bottle, my heart stirred with pride. He does listen to me, after all.

After the Pride and the Hen, I was pleased that there were public bogs on the edge of the park. Clean and free. Very civilised. Dolores was impressed, too, and she's German. They even had bog paper in the ladies.

Andrew wanted to take a look in Foyles. He still had ten quid to spend. While he was busy there, I decided to take a quick look in the second-hand bookshops that line Charing Cross Road. Maybe I'd find some more beer books. You can never have too many beer books.

I arranged to meet Dolores and Andrew outside Foyles 15 minutes later and set off with Lexie down Charing Cross Road. It took a while to find a suitable shop. "Do you have any books on beer or brewing?" "No." Seven minutes were already gone. We'd have to start back soon. I had more luck in the second shop. "Over there in the food section." was the reply. They had a copy of Brian Glover's "Prince of Ales" for eight quid. It looked brand new. That'd do. Dolores would be so pleased I'd found another beer book.

We were only a minute late getting back to Foyles. I'm so reliable nowadays. It's almost safe to let me out on my own.

We'd discussed letting the kids have a ride in a black cab. It seemed like a good time to carry out the plan. I'd told Stonch I'd see him at 15:00 and it was already five past. Getting there by tube entailed a change and then a walk up the hill. I'm so used to Holland, the slightest incline seems like the north face of the Eiger. Taxi it was.