There was nothing so certain that if there was an opportunity for me to create a comedy situation about attending an event at Leeds Castle it would end up with me stuck in the frozen North instead of Kent after an oh so hilarious mix-up at the planning stage.
And so it happened. I was supposed to be attending the Sir Chris Chataway Leeds Castle Summit, a gasbag gathering where important people sit and chataway about NHS stuff, in opulent surroundings far removed from the everyday reality of most of the people who will supposedly benefit. But instead I was forced to once again encounter the North, that vague geographical concept masquerading as a serious English entity where BUBB has its office for regional tokenism.
This was a great pity as apparently one of my ancestors was a gardener at Leeds Castle during Henry VIII's time but got beheaded for falling out with the King over the optimum month to plant his tomatoes. He did end up in the Official Encyclopedia of English Tomato Gatherers which must confer some greenfingered expertise on me and I shall remind Hillda Ogden-Newton&Ridley of this next time she argues with me about sowing my spuds.
Head hunter extraordinaire Donald Holding of Feudal (who I never plug lightly) finds all of this highly amusing but then as someone who has beheaded many an organisation of it's top management in the interests of a fat wedge of commission, he would.
The other great shame about not being in Kent is that I could have posted some glorious castle type photos to show off to the plebs but instead you'll have to make do with this. Leeds Coach Station which is where I spent last night.
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