Iestyn Edwards Wonders...is it Lumpy or Runny?

  When the committee chair asks about your dietary requirements, then gets passive-aggressive about them... 'We've had quite the trial as you're non-dairy veggishistic. Menu option after menu option from my poor bedraggled - mustn't say lowly - village hall committee handmaidens defunct. Amanda's plainest consommé - that would otherwise sing with its going to table splunge of non-pasteurised fuller-fat-than-you'd-ever-suspect Guernsey cream enriched mascarpone. And what price leaving out the dolcelatte bind and yak's yoghurt drizzle from Beth's vegan offal sharing platter? Not to mention that Katrin's traditional paella fails to cajole without its hand of Giant Finn MacCunhaill's crumbling of gouged from between the trotters gelatin swole gelding's testicle steeped Caerphilly cheese. They're needing outreach support. Luckily, the touring scheme is of necessity insured for all fall out from incoming fusspot dietary requirements.

                                                       c. Laura Pink Photography  For Lewisham it was an otherwise quiet evening. So, I went next door to remonstrate with whoever was endlessly mowing. Handsome, forties, with a bit of a belly, he mowed the border of what had been the Salvation Army old people’s hostel. I supposed he was one of the guardians — folk paying to squat in buildings awaiting development, to deter non-paying squatters from tipping up with their dogs on strings, army surplus jackets bulging with beer can bongs and contempt for toilets. He mowed on. I did the English thing of staring, hands hovering midway to hips, brows hoisted. He took his palm off the gas. ‘Sir, yes?’ Absolutely self-assured. ‘Er…hello…yes, to you, also. Iestyn. And…I was hoping to borrow the lawnmower.’  ‘Jake. Are you in the harpist’s flat?’  I nodded. ‘Staying till my new flat has floors.’ ‘How do you know her?’ Suspicious — did he think I might have broken in, suddenly thought I’d mow the