Dressing up

So, yeah, this re-enactment we went to the other week.  That was fun.

It's been a fair few years since we gave all that malarky up and sold all our kit off, but we'd been asked to go along and take part in some specific activities* with some mates, so we rejoined on a weekend membership and hoved off to Cheriton to camp for the weekend.  I say "camp."  What I actually mean is "share a rather fine motorhome with our kind mates."  There was no crawling around in small, damp tents for us that weekend, oh no indeedy.   

It was a multi-period event, so there were lots of different people in many different uniforms.

Medieval.

French Napoleonic.

British Napoleonic.

Blokes on horses.

With sabres.

Corsairs. NOT pirates, they were most emphatic about that.

Second World War types.

English. 

German.

And of course English Civil War.  Dashing, no?

My personal favourite was the little vintage "pub" that was set up in a sort of wooden framed tent, run by the WW2 chaps.  Mmmm whisky.  It's a bit blurry because I turned the flash off for Atmosphere.  They had a sign on the wall saying that due to a nearby broken gas pipe, no-one could smoke, which I thought was a clever touch. 

What was particularly interesting was that while it was lovely to see old friends, and catch up on people that I ordinarily only chat to via Facebook, at no point did I think "I wish I was still involved in all this."  I was perfectly happy to sit on my comfy camping chair, reading my book** in the shade, while most of the others rushed around in the boiling sun in layers of heavy woollen clothing, doing drill for hours, or queueing up to collect gunpowder, or marching off to the battlefield. 

It also made a pleasant change to come home from a re-enactment with no injuries, other than some mild sunburn on my shins.  Mmmm, attractive. 

 



*Swordfighting, to be precise. 
**Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell - bloody marvellous.  Read it immediately. 

Crests

I am having a whale of a time at the moment.  I think I've been out for lunch almost every day that I've been in London for the last fortnight, and was also wined and dined on Monday night in the heart of the West End. 

My lovely mate Tall Richard took me to the RAF Club for dinner.

Well.

It was marvellous. 

There are many beautiful paintings of aircraft, as you'd expect.  Also chandeliers and brass fittings everywhere. And flunkies, guarding the door, and minding your rucksack if you happen to have come straight from work.  Mine was much admired.  Apparently they don't see many pink flowery ones. 

I was particularly taken with the huge stained glass window.  As I had completely forgotten to pack my camera, I took a few fuzzy snaps on my phone:

Please note the professional almost-joining of the two halves.

You're welcome.

There is a long corridor lined with original artwork from the Royal College of Heralds, one for each Squadron (I think), all very lovely.

Here's one up close.

But my very favourite thing about the place was that everything - everything - at dinner was emblazoned with the club crest.  I bet if you conducted an intimate examination of the staff, they'd all have it tattooed on them somewhere.

The coffee cups.

The wine glasses.

The wine.  And very nice it was too, by the way.

Even the after-dinner chocolates.

Excellent.

Tall Richard and I ate a huge and marvellous meal, got a Death Race 2000 taxi back to his flat, then walked to the Prospect of Whitby pub for a cheeky late night drink.  And then back to the flat for port.  I think it was almost 2am when I got to bed.

Work the next day is something of a hazy blur.  Clearly I am too old to be out partying on a work night.

Tomorrow I am going out for lunch, and then our Gloucestershire mates are coming over in the evening (hopefully minus the garden-trashing spaniels) so I will have to knock off early to get home in time to see them.

And then, after that, it's my last day EVER on Monday next week.  Blimey.

Other news:  We've got a fucking mole in the garden. 

Not in the lawn.  Not in the flowerbeds. Not even in the bit behind the shed.   No.  He has made his little moley home in the middle of our flourishing vegetable bed. 

Bastard. 

He's been disrupting our radishes.

His days are numbered.

Christmas spirit

We've put the Christmas tree up!  I'm so excited.  No, really, I am.

Mr WithaY unravelled 400 miles of LED lights, and went and wrapped them around the rose arch in the front garden, so that is now a vision of glittering be-lighted loveliness.  We put up our tree in a hastily-cleared corner of the sitting room.  It's an artificial one which we bought in 1994, and it looks very pretty, if a little wonky. 

New tree next year, I think.  I'd like a real one, so we might get one in a tub to live in the garden and be hauled indoors for the festive season.  We'll see.

Mr WithaY has carefully pinned up the dozens of small straw dollies in the shape of angels and fir cones all over the hall ceiling, which is very effective.  He gets extra kudos for doing it with a stonking hangover, as well as (he says) the start of a cold.

Yesterday was his work Christmas lunch.  They went to a posh French restaurant in Bath, where he crammed his pie hole with cold meat, and confit of duck, and figs in honey, and all manner of fine wines.  He said it was lovely. 

I think the trouble started after they finished lunch at about 4.30pm, and went on to the pub.  I was half expecting him home any time after about 5, and even looked at the train times online to see roughly when I might be greeting him into the bosom of his adoring home, hem hem.

Well, it got to 8pm, so I had a bite to eat and watched some TV. 

It got to 10pm, and I checked the train times again. 

It got to 11pm, and I went and played World of Warcraft Cataclysm (yes, yes, I know, I know) for a bit, fully expecting him to be home soon, as the last train gets in at 11.15-ish.

Midnight came and went.

I went to bed and read my book, waiting for a phone call to say "I missed the train and I'm mysteriously stuck in Bath/Frome/Trowbridge/Exeter...will you come and fetch me please?"

Readers, it was almost 1am when he finally burst through the front door.  Drink had been taken, he informed me.

He was very cheerful, having had a delightful meal and then a fun time in various pubs in Bath.  And yes, they'd missed the last train and got stuck in Westbury.  I have done that myself, although in my case the last train was cancelled, and I had to phone home to ask Mr WithaY to come and fetch me.  Which he did without a grumble.

I asked how he'd got back from Westbury.

"Taxi!" he bellowed as he hopped around the hallway trying to take his shoe off. 

"Was that very expensive?"

"Fuck yes!"  More hopping, on a different leg as the other shoe was removed. 

"Why didn't you ring me and ask me to come and get you?"

"Hahahahahahahaaaaaaaa.  I'm not brave enough."

Hmmm.

The Long March

So, other than the visa excitement, what else has been happening chez WithaY lately?  I know you're all dying to ask, but are too polite.  Well, that's my assumption, anyway.

The other weekend was Mr WithaY's birthday.  This year both of us have been lucky enough to have birthdays that fall on a Saturday, so we have both had parties.  Hurrah for us.

Mr WithaY, having a Spring birthday, gets to have a partially outdoor party.  We get the brazier out, and hang lanterns in the apple tree, and light the fire, and people can sit around and look at the stars in a romantic and nature-loving manner.  Or, as usually happens, smoke fags, talk bollocks and sing loudly.  Both are good, of course. 

Mine is usually a smaller, less rowdy affair, perhaps a grown-up dinner party* or a few friends round for an elegant cocktail soiree**.  Always chic and well-planned though***.

Anyhoo.  The party.  We took Friday off work and got the house sorted out, ready for all the guests.  Mr WithaY spent hours, HOURS, tidying his study.  His study has been a bit of a bone of contention for, oh, about 5 years now.  It's normally a cross between a fishing tackle shop, a historical weapons exhibit at a museum, Ray Mears' Winter wardrobe, and the office of a dodgy tax accountant who never files anything to avoid trouble. 

The cleaners were given strict instructions when they started with us not to go in there.  Hell, I don't go in there. You never know what you might turn up. 

A hand-made fish spear?  Some carefully scrimshawed ox bones?  A hundred five-year-old copies of Shooting Times?  A large, lavishly-illustrated book on sausage-making?  A filing cabinet stuffed with telephone bills from the 1990s?  A Victorian chamber pot?  It's all possible. 

He spent the day sorting it all out, and by the time he'd finished, the place was just lovely.  We had a whole new room that people could go into, sit on the futon, have a drink, listen to music**** and chill out.  The carefully-placed coasters added to the total trance-room ambience, I think. 

It needed doing, as we had mates staying over, and unless that room is habitable there is no bed for some of them to use. 

Anyway, the party was a success, everyone had a nice time, or at least told us that they did, nothing caught fire, and nobody punched anybody else.  Always a sign of a good party, that.  We didn't overcater too dramatically, which was a pleasant change too.  Well, I say that.  I found several uneaten platters of party food in the big chiller in the garage the next day.  We had them for lunch.  Nom nom nom.

Party aside, what else?  Very little that I've felt compelled to write about in here.  Mr WithaY is in into the second week of his tree-climbing, coasteering, adventure training course, so the house feels big and quiet and empty.  Not that he usually runs around it shrieking and waving his arms when he's here, but I still miss him.

I went for a Long Walk on Sunday with some friends and their unfeasibly huge dog.  She is charming, well behaved and gentle, and a pleasure to be out and about with.  We drove up to Heaven's Gate, walked through the woods to the amazing stones and then down the path to the edge of Longleat Safari Park. 

The rhododendrons (sp?) were all out, and looked wonderful.

Obviously my photos don't do them justice, but you get the idea.  The stones looked fantastic in the weird kind of half-cloud that was going on.  I like this photo very much.

I didn't know that you can just walk right into the estate for free.  You only pay if you want to ride the gorilla boat or go in the mazes or go round the house or whatever.  We sat and had a drink at one of the cafe places there, walked around the gardens, then back over the fields and then UP the very steep hill to Heaven's Gate again. 

We walked from where I took this pic through the woods and along the road in a big loop to the house (helpfully arrowed) and then back up the hill that drops away in front of the bench in this picture.  By Swansea it was steep. 

It was all very pleasant; despite having to practically crawl up the last part of the hill on my hands and knees, stopping to wheeze at frequent intervals, I made it to the top without collapsing.  The friends I was with are both very fit.  Very, very fit.  The husband of the two ran - RAN - to the top of the hill, stood there for a bit, got bored and ran back down to where I was toiling up in the manner of an ant carrying an entire leaf on its back, and then ran - RAN - back to the top.

I had just about enough strength in my lungs to shout "You're not helping!" at him as he did laps of the hill.   It made me feel better.

Longleat House is gorgeous.  If I was Lord Bath I think I'd be very happy living there, despite the hordes of great unwashed traipsing through the garden. 

The gardens aren't half bad either. 

 

There are some excellent bits of sculpture and statues and so on.

Bonkers.

Other news:  Very little.  I have not really felt much like blogging for a few days, I think Mr WithaY must be my Muse, and with him out of the house, I have no ideas whatsoever.  Heh.

*shedloads of wine and hilarious shouting, often with the hostess falling asleep on the sitting room rug in front of the fire
**shedloads of cocktails and hilarious shouting, often with people falling asleep on the sofa and having to be evicted at 3am
***Not really.  Too much shouting for chic. 
****Trance, unfortunately, but hey, at least they didn't have to stand up to listen to it

Men in tights

We've had a Weekend Away. This has become rather a rare event, at least for both of us to be in the same place at the same time, so it was a bit of a treat.

We went up to see some mates in Nottinghamshire (*not* pronounced Nodding-Ham Shire, American readers) which entailed a nightmarish drive up on Friday afternoon/evening. It took 4 hours. FOUR!

Our plan to stop en route for a cup of tea and a bun were abandoned and we chugged along in slow, slow traffic all the way instead. Once we got there all was well, though. We enjoyed seeing our lovely mates, we drank a lot of wine, and we ate like fat greedy kings.

We went ten pin bowling on Saturday. I can't remember the last time I did that, and due to the unfamiliar positions adopted, both Mr WithaY and I were limping around with Bowler's Buttock for a couple of days afterwards, which was rather depressing.

Our mate took us into the nearby town (I can't remember which one) to run a few errands, and we ended up sitting outside a local pub having a cheeky lunchtime drink, watching another pub over the road being demolished. On the way back to the car we were accosted by a wild-haired woman who demanded that we come into her shop for a glass of champagne.

Well, it would have been rude not to.

It was the opening day for a new estate agency, and they were having a bit of a celebration. We had a glass of not bad pink fizz, gawped at the property prices (£150k for a three bedroom detached house!) and idly wondered if it was worth buying another house up there to rent out to students*.

On another note:

My blogging has been curtailed of late because frankly I am too hot and tired to think of stuff. I keep starting posts and then going "Oh arse to this" and going to sit in the garden or make a cup of tea or do some washing.

I'm hoping it passes and my usual ability to blather on about all the dull stuff that makes up my life will return soon. Being stressed out of my head over the last few months hasn't helped.

Mr WithaY and I have made some progess on the SSFH** aftermath, and that has made us both feel better, but we are waiting to see what happens next.

We have been trying to socialise a lot more, and keep each others' spirits up, which has worked to a large extent. I have recently realised how much my job in London has affected our social life, though. Mid-week entertaining and socialising has pretty much stopped, which was a big part of our lives before I took this job. I can't see a way around that, though. Not at the moment anyway.

I am not socialising in London nearly as much as I had thought I might, too, so it's not as if I am making up for it elsewhere. Might need to be more pro-active about meeting people in town.

And on that note, time to go and sort stuff out for the morning, as we have decided to invite some friends over for an early supper, to try and rejuvinate the mid week social life thing.


*No.

**Shit storm from Hades

Cocktails

Today has been a long and rather tiresome day, in the main.

This morning it took me 40 minutes to get my work laptop up, running, online and with all the emails etc downloaded, which was annoying. There have been complaints at work that the desktop machines are equally, if not more, slow, but my laptop has been pretty good up till now.

I am trying to get my head round a whole new chunk of work that I have taken on from a colleague who left last week, which is interesting. Trouble is, even after a couple of days of reading and re-reading I still feel like a bit of a halfwit. It'll come, but it's all a bit of a struggle, especially at the moment where my brain is still not quite all there yet.

I'm back in the office tomorrow, and I see from my sloooow inbox that we are having a summer party at the end of the afternoon, in the conference room.

Aah, nothing says Summer quite like corporate furniture. I'm not completely sure, but I think it's more likely to be a few drinks and nibbles and speeches by the top of the shop about how well everyone has done, rather than a wild drink-fuelled orgy of destruction. Not a real party.

Speaking of which...

We had a bit of a hoolie last weekend. On the spur of the moment we invited some of our lovely neighbours over for dinner on Saturday night, after a Friday night pub discussion about how we weren't doing anything much for the weekend.

I wanted to make cocktails. We watched some TV show in the week where they were drinking cocktails from proper martini glasses, and I thought "We've got some glasses like that! We should make martinis! Why don't we do that*?"

And from that, it is but a short step to having a few mates round for dinner.

Mr WithaY and I are trying to make space in the freezer, as we are expecting to take delivery of a lamb (dead, butchered, to be frozen, in case you were wondering) from some friends who have been rearing them this Spring, so we've been eating Meals That Time Forgot over the last few weeks.

We have also been unearthing some rather great stuff, like sea bass that Mr WithaY caught when he went sea fishing a while back. And frozen octopus. It made a rather fine seafood salad, a grand end to a glittering career. Sorry Spence.

I made some mini bread rolls, from a recipe on Nigella Lawson's website, which were, though I say it myself, bloody great. I also made chocolate truffle cake, and shortbread to have with strawberries for pudding. My plan was to offer our lovely guests a choice of things in an elegant restrained manner, but by the time we got round to eating we were all off our heads on martinis, and I think everyone had some of everything, possibly all on the same plate at the same time.

Cocktails, though. Don't they get you drunk fast?

We started with the classic gin martini: Bombay Sapphire gin and dry Martini, shaken with ice, served with an olive. Mmmmm-mmm. Goes surprisingly well with chicken flavour crisps. You're welcome.

Then we made Vodka martinis. Sadly, thanks to the gin martinis, I was unable to follow the recipe and ended up mixing together vanilla vodka and Bombay Sapphire gin, completely leaving out the dry martini. Again, shaken with ice, served with an olive, and then later with an additional splash of martini when we remembered. Not nearly as bad as you might expect.

Obviously, that was before dinner. With dinner we had some** truly splendid white wine.

The evening is a bit hazy after the second cocktail, but I'm pretty sure there was a lot of laughing, shouting, eating of fine food, and the gracious hostess falling asleep on the sitting room rug as her guests departed to crash through the garden hedge, as is traditional after a WithaY dinner party.

Sunday was a quiet day.






*The whiny small child that lives in my head tends not to demand sweets and comics these days, but opulent cocktails and expensive jewellery instead.

**a lot

Communication breakdown

I have been grumpy. I did something distressing to my back on Thursday morning as I was brushing my teeth, and had to come home from work early as it was so incredibly painful. I took as many Nurofen and paracetamol as possible but it still hurt like bejeebus.

Limping around like Igor, whimpering and muttering "ow fuckit fuckit fuckit" under your breath is ok in the privacy of your own home, but not in the office.

Anyhoo. I spent some time the other day looking at what I was doing this time last year (according to the blog). And what was I doing? Apart from whinging about work, which seems to be pretty much a constant of my life?

I was paying for my bloody car to be repaired. I know it was a long time ago, but it still rankles.

More than two and a half grand to fix a known fault with the car, and because it was reported a couple of weeks after their arbitrary cutoff point, nothing from Toyota to help meet the costs. Bastards.

Yes, yes....ranklement still strong in this one.

I was also moaning about the weather. We have already had more nice weather this year than we did for pretty much the entire summer last year. That's how it feels anyway.

Other news: We have a vegetable patch! With potential vegetables and everything! Following a conversation in the pub the other week, one of our lovely neighbours dropped round some courgette plants for us.

Mr WithaY spent HOURS preparing a nice cosy little place for them in the garden. He dug over all the soil, picked out stones, sieved it, pulled out weed roots, put home-made compost in the holes....everything he could think of. The courgettes settled in quickly, and so far have not been devoured by rats, crows, mice, jackdaws, pigeons, pheasants, sparrowhawks, herons, badgers, moles, foxes, squirrels or slugs.

Early days though. Early days.

We have planted a load of seeds in pots on the kitchen windowsill. Parsley. I think. Tomatoes. Some squashes. Basil. Some others I can't remember. If they grow, they will soon join the courgettes in the Vegetable Bed of Unimaginable Luxury.

Mr WithaY, inspired by all this green-fingery, also bought two redcurrant bushes and some pepper plants. The pepper plants are on the kitchen windowsill, hopefully about to burst into flower. The redcurrent bushes are in the garden, keeping the courgettes company.

It's quite exciting* really.

So, apart from all the burgeoning self-sufficiency stuff, we spent the Bank Holiday weekend at home. Mostly quietly. Late Friday afternoon we expected to be driving up to Gloucester to see our mates and their mad spaniels. I rang them at lunchtime to confirm what time they expected to see us.

Good job I did.

They were not expecting to see us at all, and in fact wanted to call in at our place on their way down to the South West. Arse.

Well, it was lovely to see them, and the mad spaniels managed not to trash the rosemary bush for once. We ended up eating over at the pub and our mates stayed the night, so it was a fun social evening.

Last night we went to a rather fine dinner party with mates in the village, and as a result woke up late today. Which is no bad thing on a holiday Monday.

I'm fretting about work, having had a day and a half of unintended immobility, so am going to have to work my nuts** off to meet the deadlines I have this week. A bath and an early night should help.

If not, I will be whining and crying on the train all the way into London tomorrow. Which will be nice for the other commuters.




*We don't get out much.

**Metaphorical nuts.

The wages of sin

Boy did I have a hangover this morning.

As a result, I have spent much of today staring blankly at my PC screen, in between drinking glasses of water and pegging out washing in the sunshine.

We had some mates round for dinner last night; I didn't think I'd had a huge amount to drink, but apparently I fell asleep on the sofa as soon as they left, and had to be woken by Mr WithaY to go to bed. I seem to recall that I ran up the stairs, loudly stating that I was sleeping in the spare room, and then crashed out gracelessly until 4am, when I woke up with the hot and cold shivers and the feeling that I was about to throw up. I didn't, but was too sleepy/pissed to get up and go to the bathroom just in case, so lay awake, feeling queasy and sweaty by turns.

Bet you wish you'd been there, eh?

Oh, and the clocks changed overnight so I now have no idea what time it is, adding to the whole surreal experience.

Anyway. Before the evening developed into a near-death experience, it was all very nice. I made a cherry clafoutis for dessert, which I hadn't attempted before. Was bloody great, and remarkably easy.

It's basically a deep buttered dish filled with a sweet pancake style batter with a load of cherries spread through it, baked in the oven for an hour or so. The batter rises a bit and surrounds the fruit, and the whole thing is pleasingly light yet soggy. Or maybe that was just my cooking.

It's been a beautiful day, although bloody cold in the late afternoon when I was bringing in the washing. But, now that I think about it, maybe that was just me, being tired and a bit queasy still.

I am far too bloody old to get that drunk. It takes me 24 hours just to start feeling normal again! Gah.

Changes

Good news at last.

My lovely Mum has been allowed home from hospital, and as you can imagine, we are all delighted by that. Spoke to her this morning and she is very happy to be back in her own bed again, after almost a month in hosital. Youngest Sis is doing a sterling job managing things down there; Mr WithaY and I are going down tomorrow to see how everyone is doing.

Mr WithaY is now home safe and sound after two weeks in deepest West Wales, and is currently asleep, having had lots of late nights. I am going to go and make some scones and a cup of tea for when he wakes up.

It's nice to have him back, it felt like a very long two weeks.

Other news: While I was staying at Bestest Mate's house last weekend I almost died of fright. Was fast asleep*, dreaming peaceful sweet dreams** when I suddenly woke up, having heard someone wandering about. Because of the deep, deep sleep***, and having spent so many night at various other people's houses lately, I was a bit disorientated, and so thought I was at home.

Hearing someone wandering about, I panicked wildly, thinking that my house had been broken into, and that I was going to have to get up and confront a burglar. It only occurred to me in the morning that I had immediately planned for confrontation, rather than hiding under the duvet till it all went quiet again.

Anyhoo, it took me quite a long time to remember that I was in fact in someone else's house, and they were perfectly entitled to be wandering around it while I was sleeping. It took an even longer time to calm down enough to get back to sleep again. Gah.

Adrenaline and alcohol. What a crap combination that is for a soporific.

Right, scone time. Like Hammer Time but with more flour. And less dancing.




*pissed after quite a lot of wine
**grunting and snorting like a wildebeest at a waterhole
***booze-induced coma

Winter wonderland

It's still snowing. It doesn't feel like England at all. Unless you watch the news and see the "not used to snow" chaos out there: cars trapped up trees, cats in snowdrifts, houses sliding down hills.

Aieee!

It's weird to think that there is a whole generation for whom this is the first significant nationwide snow. I seem to remember loads of snowy winters when I was little. Mind you, we were in Germany for some of them.

One of the neighbours has been going up and down the road outside in his tractor with a snowplough blade on the front, which is helpful. Although, if it keeps coming down like it is at the moment it will all be under a blanket again in an hour.

We went over to the pub for dinner last night, as it was too bloody snowy to go shopping, and we have reached the "three scabby carrots, 200 poppodums and dented cans with no labels on" stage in the kitchen. The place was pretty quiet, as you'd expect, but a few more people came in as the evening went on, and we ended up having quite a convivial time.

At about nine o'clock the snow started again, huge heavy flakes that quickly settled, covering the roads. We watched it, with the bar girlies getting more and more excited, until they decided they were going to go out and make snow angels. So I went as well, to watch. I am far too old and creaky to lie in the snow.

Some of the chaps in the pub started reminiscing about Great Dares Of Our Time, triggered by the conversation about the advisibility of making a snow angel in the middle of the road.*

One of the Great Dares appealed to me - a chap had to sit (on a chair from the pub) on the white line in the middle of the road outside, drinking his pint. Apparently all the traffic just slowed down and drove round him.

Another one involved making a chap run naked down the main road to pick up a diesel glove from the garage, then run back. It took ages "because he kept stopping and hiding in the bushes". Excellent.

So. More snow due over the weekend. I just hope I can get to the office on Monday, I am starting to go a bit stir crazy now.


*We decided against it, and used the garage forecourt instead.

Red red wine

The things you see on the train.

Last night, on the way home, I managed to bag a seat at one of the "four seats round a table" spots. A prime spot as long as you don't have a daddy longlegs opposite you. No, I checked carefully. The chap opposite was broad, but not tall, a good combination usually.

He smiled politely as I sat down opposite him, next to a woman who was studying a stack of work papers. The other seat next to the chap, by the window, was unoccupied. The chap opposite me arranged a newspaper, a heap of napkins, a large baguette, a plastic glass and a small bottle of red wine on the table, preparing for a picnic on the journey.

He seemed very happy, but brightened up visibly as a slim, pretty young lady made her way along the aisle towards us.

"Room for a little one here!" he boomed, patting the seat beside him.

She kept walking.

The woman next to me read all her papers, then started working on her laptop. She was a lawyer, and now I know all about the case she was working on*.

The chap opposite and I played footsie on and off, both of us trying to be polite and accommodating, but also both trying to be marginally less uncomfortable. He had long legs for such a short bloke. Or so I thought, till I looked under the table and saw that I was in fact fighting for floorspace with his briefcase. So I pushed it slowly and discreetly under his seat with my foot and relaxed again. Heh.

He worked his way through the bottle of wine, intermittently reading his paper and dozing. How nice, I thought. How very civilised. Until he rummaged around in his bag and produced another bottle. Greedy bugger! At the very least he could have had a few more plastic cups. Gah.

As the train emptied, I was able to move across the aisle, smiling at him in a "I need more space, I'm not going because you didn't offer me any wine" way. He smiled back in a "I'm really quite pissed now, I have had a lot of wine and baguette, lucky me, eh?" kind of way.

At Basingstoke, two very sweet, dolled-up young ladies came and sat opposite me. They were on their way to a Christmas party. I know because I was eavesdropping on their conversation, despite wearing my iPod. There was a bit of a clue in the plastic stemware and box of wine they were carrying. They sat and drank their wine, giggling and gossiping. I now know how much they earn, and how much they dislike one of their colleagues**.

At Salisbury they tripped off the train, still drinking their wine and giggling, off for a grand night out. Bless.

I arrived home and had time to change out of my suit and into my slippers*** before our lovely mates arrived for dinner. Mr WithaY has decided we need to party our way back to glory. I'm all for that.

As a gift, they presented me with The Farmers Calendar.

It is brilliant, and I urge you all to get your own. I particularly like Mr August, who has struck a pointed-toe ballet dancer style pose, naked in a hop field.

Other news: Went to the dental hygienist this morning. I have wonderful teeth, and she is deeply envious. Yay me. However, at one point she was scraping off some calcified crud from my back teeth, making me cringe.

"Sorry" she said. "I know it feels weird, but this is the best part of the job (scrape scrape scrrrrrraaaaaape) It's so satisfying."

I like her. If it didn't cost me 50 quid a time, I'd go every week.



*Good job I'm semi-discreet, eh?
**See above
***I did wear other clothes as well. It wasn't that sort of party.

All the way home

I've been travelling. I went down to see my lovely Mum on Thursday night, and called in to see Youngest Sis and family as well, which was nice. I listened to the Mark and Lard show on Radio 2 on the way home. They make me laugh.

Saturday morning we were up bright and early to drive up to Suffolk (look on a map, American readers) to see our mate Tall Richard and his unfeasibly stylish wife. As we headed out without having any breakfast (most important meal of the day blah blah blah) by the time it got to 12-ish we were starving.

We'd told our mates that we'd be with them by early afternoon, so had plenty of time to stop for some lunch. We decided to stop at the next service station and get some food.

We ended up here where we enjoyed huge fat boy breakfasts. Mmmmmm fried bread.

Once more, I am profoundly grateful that I chose not to have children. There were people there trying to reason with 4-year-olds. The father of the family sat the whole time with his head in his hands, more or less ignoring the wife and 2 small boys he was with. After 20 minutes sitting on the next table, I could see why.

Suitably fortified, we continued to the party house. Our mates made us welcome, we ate like fat greedy kings, I drank myself into a state of invincible superstardom, and we all sat round singing loudly until gone 1am. I played my guitar for hours and hours, and boy were my fingers sore the next day.

And boy, was I hung over.

After a quiet, slightly trembly, breakfast, we headed up to see some lovely relatives who live in that neck of the woods, and enjoyed a visit with them. We headed back onto the road South at about 3-ish and were home by about 6.30-ish which wasn't bad at all. The bulk of the traffic was going in the opposite direction so we more or less kept moving all the way home.

Been at work today, where people keep making references to sinking ships, rats, planks, and so on. It's wearing rather thin.

Next Friday is my last day in the department, which is quite a thought. I have sent out an email invite to a few colleagues to come out for a drink at a local pub to celebrate but other than that it'll be pretty low key. No being driven off the site in an armoured car for me, I think.

Well, unless I try nicking any paperclips.

Me and my wine

Ah, Def Leppard. Before they went a bit shite.

This morning I have been mostly baking* and having a hangover.

Our mates arrived yesterday, along with the spaniels, and we sat out in the garden catching up. Come 4 o'clock, we thought it would be rather nice to have a glass of wine, it being such a lovely summer afternoon. And that's where it all started.

We were halfway through the second bottle of white wine and ice (classy, us) when our long-lost mate Bill the Spill turned up as well. He was not up for wine, being en route elsewhere, but stayed and had a cup of tea or two and a chat, which was lovely.

We drank more wine, played Stick** with the spaniels, ate olives and breadsticks and chilled out. It was lovely. By the time supper was ready we were, to put it bluntly, shitfaced.

The four of us got through five bottles of wine, a huge mound of tasty snacks, a giant dish of Moroccan chicken, and then we went to a party over at the pub. Yay for weekends.

Other news: Work has been ridiculously busy again, but after the Big Important Meeting on Friday we might be getting some more help on the team and a deadline extension, so fingers crossed for that. If nothing else it will make the rest of the summer slightly less pressured.

Mr WithaY's dad is still in hospital, and not too good at all, unfortunately.

Ah yes, last week we were sat watching one of the seemingly endless reruns of Friends. Undemanding and sometimes amusing, and great to sit and stare at blankly when you have just got in from work and are having a nice cup of tea. I asked Mr WithaY which of the cast he thought was the star of the show.

"Well, Jennifer Aniston always gets top billing" he said.

And that would be because it's an alphabetical listing, dear.

Bless.

*Muffins, plain and chocolate chip, cup cakes, a Madeira cake. Damn I'm good.

**A challenging game of skill and dexterity, involving a stick. We throw it. They bring it back.

Lies in the Press

I found this little snippet in today's Telegraph. Says that Lymington in Hampshire is one of the best places to live, ever.

Lies.

I went to Lymington once with a couple of mates, on a dull rainy Saturday when we all had monster hangovers. So bad in fact that one of said friends literally fell out of the car as we pulled up in the car park and had to run to the nearest toilets to be very very sick.

Not good.

We walked around in the gloom and drizzle for a bit, groaning and falling into each other, and then thought a nice cup of tea would help us recover. We went into a tea shop, or more likely a Tea Shoppe, on the high street, took a table and waited.

And waited. And fucking waited.

We sat there for over an hour, vainly trying to catch the attention of someone, anyone, who could bring us some tea. And a bun maybe.

Eventually, after we'd dried off and read all their papers, we left, tealess and grumpy.

I think the staff either thought we'd do a runner after we'd had all their tea and buns, or that we might turn nasty if we got some sugar into us.

Bastards.

So. Lymington. No.