I do very much appreciate the 6 p.m. ritual here of a gin and tonic: not, of course, for Simba, but my mother and I are both happy to fall thirstily on our tumblers (my father, meanwhile, takes to the Man Hut - aka the garage - with beer and pipe. And, currently, David Copperfield.) It was a long, wet, chilly, grey day in southwest London. Bank Holiday, indeed. Pfahhh. All that seemed to mean was that the BL was closed (luckily I checked), and that the pharmacists were closed, so I couldn't run an errand for my mother. There can be something unfestive about British holidays - though yesterday, my father was reminiscing about going to "Whitsun Treats" with his Sunday School - the children being loaded onto a coal dray, the horse with ribbons in his mane - and them being rattled off to the countryside - or at least to a field or two - for games and, presumably, tea.