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Countdown...

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I miss living in the Wobble Box...
Some of you will assume it's down to one or more of the following:
1. I was on holiday 2. There was no cooking 3. Also, no washing, ironing or 'putting away'. 4. Glorious lay-ins 5. Beaches, sunshine and crab sandwiches
Now while I miss all of those things, there are others which make me miss the Wobble Box more...
1. I always knew where the husband was (either next to me or with his head in the front storage box of the Wobble Box where the gas bottle and various tools are stored. Now we're home, he could be anywhere. 2. I could always see the dogs.  As you know, Reg is liable to get up to all sorts of stuff when left to his own devices, most of which involve his teeth and something of mine. 3. I'm back to 'putting away' again.  In the Wobble Box, the husband realised very early on that there was no scope for leaving things on the back of chairs, on the floor, or his favourite place, at the bottom of the stairs.  With the deepest of…

My hero...

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Oh that awful first day back at work after a week away.  
I slunk into Binland like a recalcitrant teenager, dragging the toes of my shoes through the gravel and into the office.  Master P looked very relieved to see me, as he has been manning the office for the last week single handed.  Master J and I had sent our holiday requests in without discussing dates, and our poor boss, Mr W, gave up deciding which of us was to have the week off.  The chap with a wedding and honeymoon booked, or the middle aged bird who is liable to menopausal tantrums, who fancied a week on the south coast in a caravan with her husband and two neurotic schnauzers.
I'd taken Master P a box of Hero's, as I felt that he'd earned them running the shop as it were.  'You're a hero in my eyes', I'd said as I handed them over.  'I must have thought about you at least twice while I was away, wondering how busy you might be'.
Mr W was in today also, and between us, we managed to polish…

21...

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On Saturday night, I swapped my walking boots and shorts for kitten heels and sparkly top.  Why this sudden change, I hear you ask.  Well, believe it not, my baby turns twenty one this week.  This would be son number two, he with the penchant for law and an inside leg measurement (he works part time selling suits in case you're wondering whether this is a new fetish).
He's come down from the North with his good friend Mr R and together with daughter number one and Del Boy, daughter number two and Jolly Sock Man and son number one and Little Miss Tiny, we were quite a party heading out to the fleshpots of Oxford for a meal and some dancing.
I'd book two taxis to get us all into town, and I was in the second taxi with the birthday boy, his friend and the husband.  Now the taxi driver was not the sharpest tool in the box (when they were giving out brains, he thought they said 'train' and asked for a slow one) and there was conversation going on in the back which he made…

Short shorts...

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Our last day in Cornwall was yet another dry and sunny one.  Who ever was in charge of the Cornish weather this week, I owe you a drink and a bag of fudge as thanks.
Yet again, the husband had managed to coerce me down a slippery cliff to get to a beach.  Once on the sand, it became apparent that the tide hadn't quite gone out, so walking boot and sock removal were needed to reach the sandy stuff.  The woofers had the most magical time - the beach was empty so we felt happy to let them off their leads - I tend to keep them tethered to me as Reg is very fickle where legs are concerned.  In the half hour he was free, he managed to adopt an old lady in a pastel cardigan, and a lovely gay couple from York.  There are times (like when he destroyed one of my Ted Baker flip flops) when I would have signed the adoption papers, but not Friday.

On the way back to the Wobble Box, I just happened to mention to the husband that I was still one food item short on my Cornwall Bingo Card.  Having q…

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside...

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Big news....I have walked the equivalent of a marathon this week...TWICE.
Today was labeled a 'rest day' by the husband, which basically meant getting in the car and driving somewhere and then walking.  'Let's go to Polzeath', I suggested with a view to doing the coastal path walk from Polzeath beach to The Rumps.  Apparently, seals sometimes sunbathe on this part of the coastline and I was keen to take a few photos of them applying the factor 20 while reading a tacky magazine and necking a can of Thatchers (you can tell what my holidays are like from this).
So.  To the coastal path.  As you may have guessed from my bit about Lydford Gorge, I'm not especially confident where narrow paths and sheer drops are concerned.  Why I ever suggested doing this coastal path is beyond me as there were plenty of both.  But you know, the husband is great at giving me the confidence to do these things, so we set off from the beach (after the obligatory vittals) with the plan of…

Remember, walking in the sand...

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The husband made a momentous decision yesterday.
'I like it here.  Let's stay here forever'.
What he actually meant was, 'Let's bin off going to Somerset on Wednesday as the thought of dropping the awning and putting it up again is more than I can stand'.
Well, I was more than happy with this, as it would give us a chance to do all the walks on the campsite, and also to visit some favourite haunts from yesteryear.  The first on the list was a trip to Mevagissey.  Neither of us could remember what we'd done there (I would imagine that this had something to do with the sister-in-law and copious amounts of cider), but we could both remember actually being there, so that was our first stop.  By the time we'd arrived, the rain had stopped, so a lovely toddle round the town followed by tea and stickies were on the cards.

The husband then confirmed his status as a romantic Northerner, by taking me to The Lugger for a cream tea.  This is where we honeymooned, and t…

Beach baby...

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I'm not too sure what it is about this holiday.  What with the twelve minute set up for the awning (58 minutes, new PB) and the 'three' minute walk to the pub (more like ten), I should have known that the '52 minute walk to Perranporth' would be anything but that.
The husband, armed with a map from the campsite, set out at a brisk pace at around 10.30 yesterday morning.  How do I know this?  Well, I was having a last minute comfort break in the shower block, and contemplating the last question on Pop Master, that's how I know.
We started off well, and climbed a steep field to the very top, before the husband realised that he'd navigated us into the wrong field.  The right field was located after this fifteen minute detour (or warm up as the husband jokingly called it) and with our best feet forward we set off on the mile and a half walk to Perranporth beach, where parts of Poldark are filmed.
An hour into the walk, there was still no sight of the sea and we we…