Sunday Evening Post

"You've got to be kidding to me," he growled through drooping eyelids. He had slouched significantly just to fit through the door and it didn't do any favors to the tailoring as it was. When he stood to full height, glaring at us, each and every unshaven bristle looking as if some sort of porcupine missile were about to cut us to shreds, his face opened up, all perfectly white teeth. "My dentist told me to." We didn't question.  As I sit here and recount this exceptional tale, I am missing Andrew Kidman at Union Pool. I haven't surfed in weeks. It is a Sunday evening and I'm at the office, having polished off yet another bottle of Martinelli's Gold Medal non-alcoholic sparkling cider. Fukushima may very well boil to pieces, a typhoon may cut across the Panama Canal and become a hurricane, and despite their best efforts, someone will find a new problem with something. I need a real drink. You, you go surf.