Scratching an itch
THE delightful pink creatures floated with me into the tent, all eight of them. It was my wedding day and the River Thames was glistening in the spring sunshine. My mother-in-law knew that I liked pigs, so she had dispensed with the habitual flowers and imported eight shimmering piglets instead.
The hotel had recently hosted flamingos for Pink Floyd, allegedly, and the functions manager took the piglets in his stride. All went well until my
