I love Pete Sinclair

Pete Sinclair is a hero. He is a gentleman scholar, a magnificent bastard of the highest order. Praetor of the 39th Chamber of Funktronic Positivity.

I am currently ensconced in the posh London digs of Pete's buddy Matty S., whom I have never met before today. I called him on the Heathrow Express. I purchased a ticket for the cheap train, the Connect, then just jumped on the Express and claimed ignorance upon ticket-taking-time. Feigned ignorance, I should say. Luckily the train had been much delayed by "technical difficulties", so the staff had bigger fish to fry and all I got was a sigh.
So I call Matt. "Come over," he says. "Any friend of Pete is a friend of mine." He then feeds me some delicious homemade pasta with chicken and inducts me into the cult of Wii. And I actually beat him in baseball.
I'm back in the UK, being cared for by friends and friends of friends, and life feels like it couldn't get better. Hell, they're even ceasing military operations in Northern Ireland. Thirty-eight years of ... operation, not occupation. Hurrah! This engagement ends, just as Kingsley and Becca's engagement will end on Friday - when it becomes a marriage.
Savor the good times, people. Relish them. Pickle them. And yourselves.