Tweed and Twit.

Tweed and Twit.

I seem to have been caught up. Not in revelry, or in some religious ecstasy, but with work ‘n’ stuff, I guess. For whatever disappointing reason, anyway, I haven’t put pen to blog in a couple of weeks. But I’ve moved on as a person in that time. For a couple of reasons.

I could say it’s musically, as I have discovered Donald Byrd and George Duke, who are each adding to Momo’s faux-70s working atmosphere very nicely. But it’s not that. It’s in two key respects that I have developed socially of late – and I’m not sure which of them is really a step backwards.

Firstly, I spent my first weekend in tweed.

Now, itchy and hot it may be. Apparently ill-suited to go karting it is. But this robust material of chap choice does sort of, well, help one’s countenance.

It’s not simply that it feels a little like it might be stab proof. If not a complete country house alternative to kevlar, it does give one a feeling of security around the vitals, if wearing the full three-piece. It also just, well, helps you stand up straight. The kind of help I really need.

The stag do in London for Jules went off fine. I was robbed of at least a silver trophy on the karting track, smug tweeds under my jump suit and helmet not withstanding; after winning two heats, I was on the grand prix grid in third out of eleven and had comfortably taken second place by the second lap and was chasing Mike Lander for tea and medals when I was scurrilously black flagged. Pulled over for… a flapping chin strap. Mention it not. I finished one from last.

My winning find in Clobber on Friday – the work of a mere forty minutes from leaving the workload to returning to it – was a much enjoyed element of the chappish shenanigans, though I must say that Jules also wore his blazer and panama for most of the day and Mr Parker’s country jacket and cap were surpassed only by his nifty hip flask of snifters.

Of course, it says something of your age when what you really fancy doing of a Saturday night in London, on a hearty fellow’s pre-ennuptualment rollocking, is knocking a bobby’s helmet off as a jape, in the hope of ending up in Marylebone clink for the night. Either that or taking to the roof tops for a spot of light-fingered cat burglary for diamonds.

It says, of course, you’re not cut out for the real world.

Which, sitting there in a bar in Brick Lane at one in the morning in a tweed suit and still toying with my brolly, just didn’t seem to matter.

Jules pulled an essentially great gang of chaps around him that night, that’s the point, and it was good to see them each. ..But it was even gooder to come home thinking: now I know tweed.

Secondly, however, and possibly to my detriment, I have signed on to Twitter.

Why? Why why WHY?

I fear I may become as wired to it as every other of its converts – if I can work out how to come up with different status updates and items of news about my largely not at all interesting ordinary life for the blog, MySpace, Facebook and the big Twit.

Oh. That and actually service my clients. Of. Course.

I’m on simply as ‘Momotempo’ anyway. Twit me if you fancy.

Though, perhaps there’s a third way that I have moved on at last, in the last two weeks. For – news to follow imminently – I’ve actually gone and finished a music project.

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