Posts

Substitute...

Image
The husband and I are on yet another jolly this weekend.  It's at times like this, when weekend after weekend is crammed with stuff, that I wish I was thirty years younger and less likely to yearn for a cup of tea and Friday Night is Music Night on Radio 2.  
But I mustn't grumble.  The moment the invites stop is the time to worry.
This weekend I'm off to CarFest South with the husband and Binland to make sure that the site is spick and span over the three days.  Strictly speaking, I am there in a work capacity, but as I had to take a day's holiday on Friday, I reckon at least twenty four of the the ninety six hours I'm there can be allocated to fun.  This will explain why there is a large bottle of Smirnoff by the front door, waiting to be squirrelled away in the Wobble Box once the husband has retrieved it from storage.
As the oldest female going, I have naturally put myself forward for feeding all and sundry on the Thursday night before the catering tent arrives.  …

Wild horses...

Image
As if the roulette tables of Las Vegas were not enough, the husband and I trollied off to Newbury to watch some horse racing on Saturday.  We'd gone with Miss R, The Mother and her partner Step Daddy Dick.  Also somewhere in the vicinity were Mrs Jangles and My cousin and her chap, and several other jolly friends.  To be honest, if I hadn't seen photographic proof that this other section of my family were there, I might have questioned that they were there at all, as over the span of nine races and eight hours, we didn't see them once.
Now the husband and I are very sensible gamblers, taking what we are prepared to lose and no more. Having won a fair chunk of money on the 'slots' in Vegas, I was pretty sure that Lady Luck had, along with a rather shabby Elvis, left the building.  Surely I couldn't be that lucky again.
There's something about taking money to the races with the expectation of coming back empty handed, and armed with a stiff drink, I studied the…

Here comes the rain again...

Image
Blimey, this weather brings me down.  I am as blue as a pair of old school knickers and I swear on all that's holy, that if someone offered me a return ticket to anywhere beyond the English Channel, I'd have my bikini and flip flops packed before you could say, 'Judith Chalmers'.
I don't know about you, but what I can't stand is various weather persons and DJ's telling us that we have a heatwave due round about next week's Bank Holiday.  Well that's great.  But what about now?  I'm currently sitting in my lounge watching the water level on the patio creeping up the French windows, and it's just a matter of time before my patio furniture floats away accompanied by three marigolds, a pot of aubretia and our barbecue.
Talking of barbecues, we are having one tonight.  Yes, I know, but we cancelled the last attempt with two lovely friends of ours because of the rain, so we have to be terribly British and soldier on.  I say 'we' but as we al…

Time after time...

Image
Before I launch into today's banal meanderings, can I just say a quick thank you to all of you.  It's very humbling to have such kind and generous messages from people I have never met. Perhaps we should all meet up so that I can buy you a cup of tea.  Not too sure that there is a cafe big enough to take us though, so please accept my thanks which are winging through the ether to you.
I didn't mention it yesterday, but the one downfall of going all the way to America is that you have to come all the way back again at some time.  With an eight hour time difference, it was always going to take my wrinkled old body clock several days to catch back up with UK time.  Saturday and Sunday nights were both spent with eyes as wide as a jay-walking rabbit while I listened to the husband gently snoring beside me.  (That man can sleep through anything, if only I could say the same).  
At Binland on Monday, I very helpfully directed the man who had come to collect the shredding to the la…

Viva Las Vegas...

Image
Where do I start....

Well I could talk about the third world problem of rounding up four adult children and their partners after the legal requirement of alcohol and shopping at Gatwick.

I could talk about the ten hour flight (nine and a half hours more than I usually tolerate) and the breakneck taxi ride to the hotel.

I could go on and on about the first sight of Las Vegas, with the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty vying for attention on the skyline.

But let's start with the heat.  Having a daughter as a school teacher meant that we had to go to Vegas in August.  Now I knew it would be warmer than home (let's face it, anywhere is warmer than here right now) but I wasn't prepared for the 45 degrees dry heat which slapped me round the face as I got off the plane.  It was like standing in front of an open oven door when you're turning your roast potatoes (but without the oven gloves) and when the wind started a-blowing, it felt like you were in a hairdryer on the h…

Lost weekend...

Image
I may never go back to Bournemouth again.  It's not because I don't like the town, because I do.  It's beautiful, and the beach is stunning.  No, it's more for the reason that every bar between West Cliff and the gardens has my photo under their counter with 'BARRED' stamped across it in red.  
It all started rather quietly on Saturday morning.  I surprised Miss R, The Mother and Mrs Jangles at Maidenhead station.  They had been expecting me at Reading but I thought I'd creep up on them on the platform and check out how many bags of tat they were carrying.  Well it didn't look too bad as I approached them, just a helium balloon screaming 'Bride Tribe' tied to a suitcase and a fairly innocent looking white carrier bag.  
Once settled on the train, Miss R pulled out the white carrier, and said, 'Now let's see what we have in here'.  Well ladies, you all saw the state I was in on the train, with veil, glasses, badge and hairband all annou…

It's my party...

Image
The countdown has started for the 'hen weekend' planned by daughters one and two.  
I have to confess to being slightly nervous as to what surprises they may have in store for me, especially after the husband muttered 'Naked butler' under his breath last night.  He later admitted that he was winding me up, but still, if some bloke turns up at the bar with cocktails and a small pinny, I shall be telling him to 'buttle off' in no uncertain terms.  
Having been the recipient of a stripper when I left a car sales job many moons (excuse the pun) ago, I spent my final afternoon at the garage locked up in the manager's office while a bloke in beige cords pleaded with me to open the door so that he could fulfill the booking.  'It's all been paid for, you might as well let me take me keks off', were his words if I remember rightly.
So no strippers please.  I also put the kibosh on any sort of sash, cheap veil and L-plates (I'm that old that surely I'…