The sun, impetuous as ever, lit up the sky and all of Britain was a barbeque. Hand in hand with my so we traipsed our way to south Oxford to be greeted by the smell of roasting meat. A convivial crowd kept a table company, the wine and the banter brightly alighted on seasonal topics (No one mention the 'E' word).
On Friday night I increased by one the number of Indian restaurants I have visited. The Dhaka Brasserie on Cowley Road is not as renowed as the nearby Aziz but its food is no less sumptuous. We were the only patrons and I wondered at the inequity of it all. I heard tell that the Brasserie is run by former Aziz waiters who decided they could cook food just as well and for less. The chick pea curry I consumed convinced me they were right.
On Saturday, I watched Liverpool dramatically clinch the FA Cup from the grasp of Arsenal with two late goals by the irrepressible Michael Owen.
The next day my gf and I did the park thing. Improvised picnic in hand, we went to Wellington park in Jericho a trendy part of Oxford. The fashionistas and the intelligentsia sipped lattes while we, hidden behind a wall of trees, sipped pineapple smoothie and ate M&S sushi.
The weekend was topped off by an Ash gig. Snowpatrol supported to make it a Northern Ireland double bill. I was mistaken for the snowpatrol singer by someone in the audience. The place rocked. During the Ash set, I felt powerless as the swollen crowd became a trapped river and swirled from side to side, sometimes picking me and later dropping me like some glacial deposit. Crown surfers gleefully rode the crests and troughs of the human sea each finally plucked to safety by a burly security man.
My eardrums reverberated for hours after.