Mrs Combo's doctor dropped off his perch this morning, in full harness if I may mix my metaphors horribly, as he conducted his morning surgery. Ugo was an outstanding graduate of the Ron Combo School of Drinking and an even more enthusiastic smoker. So much so that he invariably chain smoked in his surgery*, much to the disgust of his coughing and hacking flock. The Italian idiom is that he smoked like a Turk; much more colourful than our rather anodyne chimney. Ugo was 57. Heart attack of course.
*Yes, of course it's banned. This is Italy for Gods's sake.
4 comments:
Flowers eh - bit rough just hanging them on the door like that. In this enlightened age I have decided that it's actually quite selfish to arrive for, say dinner or a party, bearing flowers for the lady of the house. Poor girl's frantic in the kitchen swearing at Nigela through gritted teeth and some bastard turns up expecting her to fit a spot of flower arranging into the schedule. There is also the possibility that, driven by a misplaced sense of gratitude, she then spends more effort on the flowers than the dauphinoise and we end up with a mediocre meal - bad news all round, no winners there. I'm sure the same applies in the case of the expired Dr. LESS FLOWERS !
So your liver outlives yet another quack.
Doctor Ugo. Sounds like a character from Nabakov. Still, I'll light up a 1938 Gold Flake in his honour.
I may well start, certain in the knowledge it will all dovetail in neatly at the end.
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