Walking in a winter wonderland...
Firstly, please accept my apologies for the later than usual post today. This is what happens when you are trawling the Home Counties with a car full of drunks in a fog so thick you could knit an Aran sweater out of it.
Some months ago, the shout came up from my nephew, Wormy (he'll hate me for this pseudonym, but Mr G sounds too boring for this loopy boy) to arrange something special between Christmas and New Year. Several suggestions were made, a couple of which I'm not sure were legal, but in the end we decided on a trip to Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. The final count yesterday was vastly reduced due to sickness and general apathy, but the hard core party ended up as me, the husband (who was moaning quietly about a sore throat), daughter number one, son number one, Miss R (naturally), Wormy and his beautiful girlfriend Miss B.
As alcohol was involved, the shout went up to drive as far as possible, then get the train in. I was never going to drink, as it's daughter number two's birthday today, and I didn't relish the thought of celebrating that by sticking my head down the loo all day. Anyway, I digress. We all managed to get there at round about the same time which is surprising as the trains all started out in three different counties...
Wormy steered us towards the German section of the fair, because as we know, 'German' equals beer plus sausage, and the whole evening went disgracefully downhill quicker than you could say Bratwurst. I was slightly disappointed, as I was expecting to see a similar set up to what we saw in Berlin last year, but unfortunately, it appears that the Brits looked at the whole German market phenomenon with its baubles, gingerbread and wooden toys, and decided that beer, sausage and scary rides would be a far better option. Miss R and I did manage to buy the obligatory daft hats though, so it wasn't all bad.
Talking of the scary rides, after drinking for six hours, the rest of my party decided that it would be a great idea to be thrown about sixty feet in the air for three minutes. I encouraged this, because I reckoned that if they were going to throw up, then this would be a better time to do it, rather than in the husband's car on the M40. But needless to say, their constitutions did them proud, and they headed off for another beer. I had bought myself a lovely hot chocolate while they were being chucked about, queuing for ten minutes for the luxury, and I arrived back at my little group of daredevils (idiots) to find Miss R in the throes of an asthma attack after the rollercoaster ride.
'Have you got your inhaler with you?' she asked, sounding like she'd developed a fifty-a-day habit since I last clapped eyes on her.
Well I did, and I handed her my hot chocolate while I rummaged through my bag looking for it. Between handing it over and getting it back, she had managed to drink three quarters of my precious hot chocolate, all that was left was that sticky, gritty bit at the bottom. There's gratitude for you...
When I finally managed to get them all out (the place was closed so the time was right) we had been there for almost nine hours. Son number one suggested getting an Uber to get back to our abandoned car, which was a great idea. The lovely man dropped us back at Gerrards Cross and then it was down to me to negotiate the fog for thirty miles to get us all home safely.
Sitting in the front seat, the husband started muttering about how sore his throat still was, and that he was definitely coming down with something.
Well, I beg to differ...
I wonder if it had anything to do with singing 'Living on a Prayer' at the top of his voice while dancing on the table in a large tent with about two thousand other people?
Time will tell...
Some months ago, the shout came up from my nephew, Wormy (he'll hate me for this pseudonym, but Mr G sounds too boring for this loopy boy) to arrange something special between Christmas and New Year. Several suggestions were made, a couple of which I'm not sure were legal, but in the end we decided on a trip to Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. The final count yesterday was vastly reduced due to sickness and general apathy, but the hard core party ended up as me, the husband (who was moaning quietly about a sore throat), daughter number one, son number one, Miss R (naturally), Wormy and his beautiful girlfriend Miss B.
As alcohol was involved, the shout went up to drive as far as possible, then get the train in. I was never going to drink, as it's daughter number two's birthday today, and I didn't relish the thought of celebrating that by sticking my head down the loo all day. Anyway, I digress. We all managed to get there at round about the same time which is surprising as the trains all started out in three different counties...
Wormy steered us towards the German section of the fair, because as we know, 'German' equals beer plus sausage, and the whole evening went disgracefully downhill quicker than you could say Bratwurst. I was slightly disappointed, as I was expecting to see a similar set up to what we saw in Berlin last year, but unfortunately, it appears that the Brits looked at the whole German market phenomenon with its baubles, gingerbread and wooden toys, and decided that beer, sausage and scary rides would be a far better option. Miss R and I did manage to buy the obligatory daft hats though, so it wasn't all bad.
Talking of the scary rides, after drinking for six hours, the rest of my party decided that it would be a great idea to be thrown about sixty feet in the air for three minutes. I encouraged this, because I reckoned that if they were going to throw up, then this would be a better time to do it, rather than in the husband's car on the M40. But needless to say, their constitutions did them proud, and they headed off for another beer. I had bought myself a lovely hot chocolate while they were being chucked about, queuing for ten minutes for the luxury, and I arrived back at my little group of daredevils (idiots) to find Miss R in the throes of an asthma attack after the rollercoaster ride.
'Have you got your inhaler with you?' she asked, sounding like she'd developed a fifty-a-day habit since I last clapped eyes on her.
Well I did, and I handed her my hot chocolate while I rummaged through my bag looking for it. Between handing it over and getting it back, she had managed to drink three quarters of my precious hot chocolate, all that was left was that sticky, gritty bit at the bottom. There's gratitude for you...
When I finally managed to get them all out (the place was closed so the time was right) we had been there for almost nine hours. Son number one suggested getting an Uber to get back to our abandoned car, which was a great idea. The lovely man dropped us back at Gerrards Cross and then it was down to me to negotiate the fog for thirty miles to get us all home safely.
Sitting in the front seat, the husband started muttering about how sore his throat still was, and that he was definitely coming down with something.
Well, I beg to differ...
I wonder if it had anything to do with singing 'Living on a Prayer' at the top of his voice while dancing on the table in a large tent with about two thousand other people?
Time will tell...
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