Cutting.

From Putanesca to Putney in a day. Giliogla's recipe was the alt-bbq banquet from Eden (Italy, if you ask Italian scribes). However, to have my ultimate night in Eastbourne squandered by my colleagues' House of Commons duties was a hammer blow:

No they weren't forced to commute to Westminster but simply oversee a U-18's non-alcohol disco.
Yet naturally the exersions required to snuff out young (unsolicited) lust was enough to the dampen our final love-up. Efforts were instead directed at steering all homeward, and to dissuade a certain stocky young turk from returning to town.

Tomorrow planes will be flying over my head and no doubt I won't notice the aerobatycs, but for a rocket of apprehension in my head. And I don't refer to Chingchong. I'll explain...