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”
So here’s the thing. For the past year or so, I’ve been involved in an arrangement. A you-scratch-my-back-and-i’ll scratch-yours type of thing. In fact, I could easily go as far as to call it a relationship. A mutually beneficial, reciprocal kind of relationship, which saw its inception at the school gates. At first I was dubious, but after several rides, I was hooked. And so was She. Soon there was little alternative – we’d be lost without each other. Continue reading “Car Share”
The clock had been ticking for nigh on two years. Tick Tock. Tickety Tock. 1460 home-made beds and 2190 meal-time marathons later, the time had finally come. For a holiday. Another one? Never mind a year’s worth of maternity leave, weekend joyrides in Amsterdam or the five week stint on The Costa Del MIL (& for that I most definitely deserve a medal). No, what was needed was a belting holiday blow-out, of the bum meets beach meets balcony meets bar meets buffet meets booze meets boogie meets bed kind. And with a party of six regressing-on-adolescent adults, four terror tots, one bouncing baby and a stuffed Minion in tow, forget Anonymous in Antalya. There was no question that this was going to be a holiday to remember. And so were we to be remembered. By every other poor sod in the environs. Continue reading “Brits on Tour”