Going for mould

It wouldn't be right for this blog to ignore the goings on in London would it? Although to be honest, the goings on have led me to ignore this blog. I am hooked, despite not leaving the boundary of Bristol to immerse myself in Olympic fever.

Ok, I managed to see the torch live as it was carried across the Clifton Suspension Bridge.

Yes, ok lame photo but it all got a little bit exciting, and see if you can spot it. 

Other than that small exertion from my home, I have found myself in front of the TV watching random hockey games at midnight, have been caught up in the tension of trap shooting and discovering that the tactics in the peloton are fascinating. 

I have looked back at my exercise regime of the past year with shame realising with a little, um, ok a lot of extra training I could, thanks to exotic family history, have represented Mauritius at Eton Dorney instead of representing Mauritius at ten pin bowling on a Saturday night down the Lanes (any excuse).

I haven't spent all my time on the sofa though. I found myself at the Ironbridge rowing regatta a couple of months back picking elderflowers.  Oh yes, the Ironbridge is strong, tough and imposing in rather stunning way, whilst the race required focus, effort and was the culmination of winters training, but this rower was distracted by pretty flowers.

There is an explanation. Sunday's race had been cancelled for reasons only the organisers seemed to know, and as we were packing up our tents I spotted my chance. Like Ennis on form, I dashed over to the tall flowering tree and picked a handful, with the intention of making my own Elderflower champagne.

I got home, I googled Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall because he was bound to have a recipe, and I set about making my poison. But then I had a dilema. I was off on holiday for a week and the recipe said the concoction needed to go into sterilised jars in which gas would build up. WIthout me around to release the gas, I feared the destruction of the flat, and so instead I covered the pan with a cloth. I was late for my train. It seemed a good idea at the time.

On my return I found the champagne was topped by a thin film of mould. I was gutted! My instant thought was ' it's ruined'. I poured it down the sink, as sweet scent of wine wafted up before vanishing. It was then that I wondered if I had made a mistake? Could I have rescued the situation? Does anyone know the answer? Nevermind. With all the flowers gone,  elderflower season having past, I shall have to wait another year. A bit of patience may be good for me.

For now though, I shall be raising a glass of someone elses bubbles to a man of incredible patience and dedication, Mo Farah, in the hope that his next 5,000 metres are as poetic as his last 10,000. What a run.

 (Watch Mo Farah win gold (BBC IPlayer link))