It had all been arranged that we'd meet up for 1pm at The Location: Grenvyle would drive from home, Andy from work, while I'd WFH then hit the parceltaped saddle. 12:30-ish, down to the shed to find Sir Walter's front wheel demised, bereft of life, and positively not pining. Some poor timing. Never fear and never care, that's why Moons is there. Fully fixed and 'flated in five mins. Big tip o' the hat to the fellas.

Didn't appear that far on Google Maps to The Location. Out through Westerfield, past the swinging Swan, there's Westerfield House, and still not there. Please, give me a sign. Finally, a welcome right turn into Fynn Valley Golf Club. How many such sporting salons have we done? Four! Er, this is number three, actually, after Seckford & Waldringfield. Long old driveway, too, before the rough of the car park.

G&A sitting and supping in the Courtyard Bar, a rung down from the posh Valley restaurant and a rung up from the adjacent riff-raff bar snacks area. Glad of my J2O as we ordered and took advantage of the two courses for an English tenner option; jolly service, too, the poor girl making more than one trip back to the kitchen on our behalf. Among the golfing gewgaws, a gathering behind us was failing to dent their overcatered buffet. Very much eyeing up the piles of sarnies and sausage rolls when, lo, here's course numero uno.

My choice was the ROTD: lovely lamb, large portion thereof, plus quality mint sauce, plus bonus bonanza dish of easily identifiable veg, cf Butley Barn. Polar opposite of a light lunch, tastily filling and fillingly tasty. Did I "need" course number two in the guise of choc brownie and ice cream? Nope, "need" would not be apposite. That return bike ride, however, was entirely necessary, and sure helped to burn off two, possibly three, of the larger potatoes.

If it was a car -- VW Golf.
If they were passing by -- Jimmy Tarbuck.