Got home this afternoon from visiting some mates up in Nottingham. It was a lovely visit. We saw their house for the first time, they had arranged a fantastic dinner party with some excellently entertaining mates of theirs, we heard all about their incredible adventures in Pakistan, and we ended the evening by singing along to a karaoke dvd at the top of our lungs.
Ahhhh, classic home entertainment. I love singing. As does our host. It was very, very pleasant.
The drive home this afternoon was a bit of a nightmare though. Some fuckwit had had an accident on the M42 and we ended up sitting in a traffic queue for the best part of an hour, while it got colder and colder.
The rain turned to sleet, which meant Mr WithaY and I could have the "Ooh, perhaps we'll get a proper winter this year" conversation. Which was nice.
We ended up calling in at the supermarket in Bath on the way home as it would have been too late by the time we got back here, did a grocery shop, scooted home, then had a nice cup of tea and some scones.*
On the way up there on Saturday morning we stopped off at some services on (I think) the M5 for a drink and a bite of breakfast.
There were two or three little old ladies in the queue ahead of us, chatting and giggling quietly. They were Welsh, and none of them was over about 5'2". I got the impression they didn't get out much, and this was a bit of an adventure for them. We stood patiently behind** them, doing our famed "Godzilla devastating Tokyo" impression whenever they weren't looking.
We stood there for quite some time, as there was only one girl serving at the counter. Who would ever imagine a coffee bar being busy at 11am on a Saturday?
Not fucking Costa, that's for sure. Gah.
While we stood there, more and more teeny old ladies appeared, joining their mates in front of us. I didnt realise for ages because my attention had been diverted by the World's Ugliest Rugby Fans. I think a coachload had arrived, and boy, they were unattractive. Distractingly so.
Anyway. When I looked at the queue in front of me, bugger me if it hadn't grown from about 3 little old ladies to about 12. And no, I am not kidding.
Mr WithaY and I glared at them in increasing irritation but without saying anything, obviously. Far too British to make a scene, oh dear me no.
I tried to defuse the situation by saying to him "Don't stress, they're old, they'll die soon." His response? "They fucking will if they do that again." Classic.
It gets better.
They then started the "Oh, I just want a coffee please dear" thing to the girl behind the counter, who reeled off all the options available, and they all nodded sagely and said "Yeeees, just a coffee please."
It went on for what felt like a week. Eventually an understanding was reached and the girl said "Is that to go?" Oooh yes, it was to go, thank you very much love.
After another hellish eternity the twelve coffees were handed over in paper "to go" cups. There was much excitement about paying (Paying! At the till! What an idea!), but it finally got done.
Then we had the Dance of the Napkins, Sugar, Stirrers, More Napkins, and "extra milk, ooh, tip a bit out love, bit more, bit more, ooh, lovely", and finally, finally, it was our turn.
We got our drinks and lunch (we'd missed breakfast by now) and turned to find a table.
Fuck me, if all the tables were't filled by all the little old ladies, with their "to go" coffees.
I had started laughing by now, and had to sit down until it stopped. I think they thought I was a mentalist on a day out.
*which I made as soon as we got in, because I had been fantasising in the traffic queue about a cup of team and warm scones with butter. No, I don't know why.