Friday started off grim: Peeing down rain, and stuff to take care of at work before I could go enjoy my day off. I helped Marko pick out a No.1 Mk.III from our selection (he got a 1933 BSA), and took care of some dull scut work around the shop.
I escaped, and dragged my book to lunch. Having just scored a 1916 Enfield myself, I was re-reading the section of Keegan's The Face Of Battle dealing with the battle of the Somme over a delicious filet with a double side of asparagus spears at the Chop House, but kept getting distracted by the power lunch going on at the table across from me. A man and a woman were having a business lunch, acompanied by a conversation spoken (loudly, on his part) solely in managerial buzzwordese. If I heard the word "proactive" one more time before the check came, I'd have probably lost it. When CCA is a globe-spanning empire, and I've sweated my way up to Junior Vice President of Ashtray Placement or whatever, please, shoot me if I start talking like that.
I swung by Leaf & Ale on the way home to expand my beer horizons, and can add Avery India Pale Ale to Bridgeport IPA on the generally approved list. I still prefer The Shipyard Fuggles IPA to either, though; I may have a new reference beer, there. (The reference beer is your baseline to which you compare other beers, as in "Well, this is almost as good as..." or "Hey! This is even better than...")
I got home to find that Amazon had dropped off my order: Boston T. Party's novel Molon Labe!, and the album Nouvelle Vague (thanks, Phlegmmy!) The sun came out long enough to let me enjoy a pretty sunset with a book in one hand, a smoke in the other, and a beer on the little cafe table on my porch, but then Mother Nature welshed, and ended my day off like she started it, by dumping a skyful of water on my noggin.