Roll on the Great British Bank Holiday. A delightful long weekend in which important, tired and hard-working people get to rest their weary heads, and less important but equally as tired and hard-working FTM’s get to, quite frankly, carry on regardless. A joyful time in which the Great British Public love to either a) inebriate themselves over three consecutive days, whilst manning a succession of dwindling tinfoil BBQs in the pissing rain, wearing T-shirt and shorts, b) spend quality time with husbands, wives, partners and children, engaging in cohesive and incredibly fun activities, such as Twister, Jenga and Junior Trivial Pursuit or c) a bit of both, more commonly known as boozed-up childcare in the rain. Whichever way you choose to spend your Bank Holiday though, one thing is for sure: The Great British Bank Holiday simply wouldn’t be the same without a Great British Queue.
Continue reading “The Great British Bank Holiday”
The GR has resurrected herself. Bang on cue. Just in time for Easter. It’s Day 1 of the “holidays” and her timing is impeccable once again. Her little-black-cloak has been dry-cleaned, in honour of the numerous jollifications planned and her scythe has been sharpened, ready to strike anyone or anything that, quite frankly, has the audacity to Gd’dam breathe. Approach at your own risk.
Continue reading “The Resurrection”
Last week the Mr and I celebrated having survived another year of marriage, quite remarkably, to each other. And what better way to mark yet another year of wonderful wedded bliss and matrimonial melodramas, than by having ourselves a very clean weekend away with one another. Plus two.
Happy anniversary Darling.
You see, my old fellow and I are not the most romantic duo you’ll ever meet. Romeo and Juliet we most certainly are not. Having booked this months in advance, as less of a pre-planned anniversary treat and more of a timely coincidence, the only thing on offer this weekend was an advance purchase rate and a couple of complimentary chocolate chip cookies. And with myself, the hormonal back-seat driver, and our very own double-trouble, squabbling, squawking, terrible twosome in tow, our celebratory cruise down the motorway was doomed from the outset. Continue reading “The Seven Year Itch”