On Friday, a text message popped up on my phone from a good friend of mine who lives in Zurich. It read: my cousin’s racing at Snetterton on Sunday in BTCC. Can get on grid; fancy joining me?
To which I wanted to reply: yes, oh god yes, but had to reply: sorry bud, too short notice to get staff cover.
Pity, I thought, but then thought nothing more of it.
On Saturday evening, a chap came in to the pub for dinner and was staying at the bed & breakfast opposite. He dined, talked to a few customers, and left. Nothing unusual in that; it is, after all, a pub and so strangers come in, drink, eat and leave quite often.
Then, this evening, the same chap returned to the pub, along with the owners of the B&B, bemoaning the fortunes of his driver in today’s British Touring Car Championship round at Snetterton. Turns out his driver, who was briefly leading this afternoon’s event, crashed as he started lap two.
“Funny,” I said as I poured the beers, “a good friend of mine has been at Snetterton today too, because his cousin was racing in the BTCC.”
They both laughed. “Well, I hope his cousin wasn’t James Nash, because they’d have had a pretty disappointing afternoon.”
Picking up my phone I sent Chris a text: what’s your cousin’s name? The reply was quite quick: James Nash. Be with you in about five minutes.
So there’s my small-world story for the weekend: a chap who I’ve known for seventeen-odd years has a cousin who races in the British Touring Car Championship. I’ve never met his cousin, but his manager and my mate both turned up in my pub this evening having seen each other at the race track today and not realised who each other was.