Monday

 The 'boys' are quiet. No post luncheon blogs. So I asked my AI to report what Alexa had heard from the kitchen:

RBB: (Poking at his shepherd's pie with a fork) This gravy is thinner than the E string on my violin, TC. And that's saying something.

TC: (Shoving a spoonful of mushy peas into his mouth) Don't complain, RBB. You've got it easy. Try blowing enough wind into a Great Highland Bagpipe after eating this slop. I swear, the high A nearly took off my toupée yesterday. It's a miracle of physics.

RBB: Physics? No, it's just sheer volume, Pete. Volume masking incompetence. I was practicing the Bruch Violin Concerto this morning—subtle, emotive, requires finesse—and I had to stop because I thought a tractor had stalled outside. Turns out, it was your practice chanter.

TC: The practice chanter is essential! It's how I keep my fingers nimble! You try achieving a clean G-D-E grace note when your joints feel like they're packed with sand. Besides, your double bass is practically a coffin on a stick. You must put your back out every time you get it out of the car.

RBB: It's an upright bass, Pete, and it provides the harmonic foundation for the entire orchestra! It’s heavy, yes, but it’s noble. Unlike your instrument, which sounds like an angry hive of bees fighting in a drainpipe.

TC: Angry bees that can rally a whole battalion! Your bass sounds like someone whispering about existential dread. You know what needs foundation? My short game. I played eighteen holes this morning, and I swear, the golf gods are punishing me. I had three three-putts. Three!

RBB: That's what you get for playing a sport where the clothing is louder than the applause you'll ever receive. You know, I've got to tune that colossal lump of wood tonight. Have you ever tried tuning a double bass? It’s like trying to coax a coherent thought out of a politician. You turn the peg a millimeter, and suddenly you're playing in the key of Q-flat minor.

TC: (Wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans in) I have a system for everything, Rich. For the pipes, it's about making sure the hemp is snug on the joints. For the golf, it's about the Scottish grip and keeping my eye on the bloody ball. And for life, it's about avoiding stairs and people under the age of forty.

RBB: I'll drink to that. (Takes a sip of his wine). You know, I tried to get a young lad interested in the bass at the community center. He took one look at it and asked if it was a giant ukulele.

RBB: (Shakes his head ) Kids today. No respect for the classics. I tried to explain the difference between a March, Strathspey, and Reel (MSR) to my grandson. He said, "Is that like three different TikTok filters, Grandad?"

RBB: A giant ukulele and TikTok filters. We are truly living in the end times, TC. Now, pass me the salt. This pie needs some serious help.

TC: Did you read the first reading for Mass tomorrow? It's about Danny boy. He gets sent to Babylon with some other school mates. He doesn't like the grub and eats just vegetables.

RBB: I guess he was pleased to get away from Brother Benedict. (Here RBB slams his fist on the table and spits on the floor).

TC: Steady on old boy! That's the old girls favourite Persian rug under your chair. 

RBB: Oh sorry old friend, just got carried away! Well we'd better be off, my parking has almost expired, and still got 2 hours Bass practice to do. 

TC: Yeah ok then (looking over his shoulder as he kneels wiping the costly rug), I'll give you a ring later. Hey, why don't you let Shelley drive and you could practice on the way home. When their windows rattle the local residents will think you have a cool loudspeaker car!

RBB: Na, we only brought the little Nissan Note, no room unlike our bigger one; wouldn't want to poke her in the ear with the German bow.

TC: Yer, never know, you might get a French hiss!

RBB: I thought Wellington would improve your humour.. byeeee.