Mid June saw me whisked away - grumbling, as usual - to Richmond, Virginia for the company's annual retreat. I had very low expectations for the jaunt, other than the hope of catching up on some well-earned sleep, and was confounded on both accounts by both thoroughly enjoying myself and hardly sleeping at all. The last night saw a few of us sneak off campus for a bit of impromptu "bar hopping"... we kicked off at a self-styled English Pub called
Penny Lane where the barman addressed me as "mate." In the hopes of finding something more authentic we followed our CFO - and Richmond native - elsewhere, only to be led to a raucous student joint, the likes of which I had gladly avoided for the previous ten years. In the hopes of finding something more
soigné, we decamped for a French bar which we could not find. This, it turns out, was because it was an Irish bar - a very self-consciously Irish bar. Somehow the accent in its Gaelic name, Siné, was construed by our leader as denotative of Gallic provenance. More drinks followed; there is I believe some photographic evidence somewhere of
karaoke, perhaps some pogo dancing, it's all a little bit of a blur.
In addition to my dignity, a further causality of the evening's excesses was my driving license, which put me in something of a pickle for getting home; I had to board a flight that afternoon and had no other form of photographic ID in my possession. Fortunately, Richmond's finest came to my rescue and, following a predictable round of attempted buck-passing and hedging at Precinct 4, an officer took pity on me and wrote up a police report of my loss, which was all the airline and airport security needed to let me board; although, that said, my person and carry-on was given a bit more than the usual going over. Indeed, I even had time to spare that afternoon to visit the home of Jefferson Davis, who you will remember as the one and only President of the Confederate States of America. Richmond was in fact the capital of the CSA, an honour transferred from Montgomery, Alabama as part of the quid pro quo for Virginia's secession.
In addition to my dignity, a further causality of the evening's excesses was my driving license, which put me in something of a pickle for getting home; I had to board a flight that afternoon and had no other form of photographic ID in my possession. Fortunately, Richmond's finest came to my rescue and, following a predictable round of attempted buck-passing and hedging at Precinct 4, an officer took pity on me and wrote up a police report of my loss, which was all the airline and airport security needed to let me board; although, that said, my person and carry-on was given a bit more than the usual going over. Indeed, I even had time to spare that afternoon to visit the home of Jefferson Davis, who you will remember as the one and only President of the Confederate States of America. Richmond was in fact the capital of the CSA, an honour transferred from Montgomery, Alabama as part of the quid pro quo for Virginia's secession.
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