Some sunny day...
Having carted me around the UK over the last three years to various holiday hotspots, most of which have been spend in waterproofs and wellies, the husband shocked me by saying that he felt I deserved a week in the sun, and that I should start looking for somewhere to go.
Well this was a turn up for the books. The husband, who fancies himself as something of an Action Man, loving the challenges that a week in torrential rain can bring when accompanied by a mountain bike, a wife and two dogs, hates anything which revolves around a deckchair. I, on the other hand, relish a week lying horizontally, rolling over every now and again like a hog on a spit to ensure an even tan. Couple this with a good book, a pool and a friendly waiter and I'm in heaven.
Over the last three years, the husband has encouraged me (this is me being kind, as there is rarely any question asked as to whether I want to climb a 1:3 hill in a gale force 8) to do the following:
Walk the cliff path between Branscombe and Beer - I'm not the biggest fan of heights, and did most of the walk with my eyes shut and screaming. This is not the best of ideas when you are clinging to the side of a cliff, with two dogs wanting to look over the edge.
Cycle between two unpronounceable towns in Wales - the 'path' was full of pot holes, and the return journey was one of the worst things I have ever had to do. I stood up on the pedals the whole way home, looking like a geriatric BMX stunt rider, and couldn't sit down without wincing for two days.
He has been responsible for blisters on my feet, friction burns on my derriere, an asthma attack eight minutes outside of Beer, bad hair for six days running, trainers, a badly fitting rucksack, unflattering anoraks and what should be an illegal waterproof hat.
So now it's my turn.
I've started thinking about where I want to go. As it's only a week, I don't want to waste precious hours on a plane, so it will probably be somewhere in Europe, possibly Italy or Southern France. I just fancy a little glamour after the thick socks and walking boots of the last three years, and I am picturing myself wafting around the pool in a large floppy hat and heels. Naturally, I will have lost the excess baggage I have been hoisting around this year, so I will also be wearing an expensive bikini (and not denim cut offs and the obligatory walking boots).
Discussing this with the husband yesterday, he slipped a word into the conversation which has raised some concerns. He used the word 'we'....
Oh....so he thinks he's coming too. Best start looking for a pair of speedos for the old boy....
Luckily, I have a energetic and colourful imagination...
Well this was a turn up for the books. The husband, who fancies himself as something of an Action Man, loving the challenges that a week in torrential rain can bring when accompanied by a mountain bike, a wife and two dogs, hates anything which revolves around a deckchair. I, on the other hand, relish a week lying horizontally, rolling over every now and again like a hog on a spit to ensure an even tan. Couple this with a good book, a pool and a friendly waiter and I'm in heaven.
Over the last three years, the husband has encouraged me (this is me being kind, as there is rarely any question asked as to whether I want to climb a 1:3 hill in a gale force 8) to do the following:
Walk the cliff path between Branscombe and Beer - I'm not the biggest fan of heights, and did most of the walk with my eyes shut and screaming. This is not the best of ideas when you are clinging to the side of a cliff, with two dogs wanting to look over the edge.
Cycle between two unpronounceable towns in Wales - the 'path' was full of pot holes, and the return journey was one of the worst things I have ever had to do. I stood up on the pedals the whole way home, looking like a geriatric BMX stunt rider, and couldn't sit down without wincing for two days.
He has been responsible for blisters on my feet, friction burns on my derriere, an asthma attack eight minutes outside of Beer, bad hair for six days running, trainers, a badly fitting rucksack, unflattering anoraks and what should be an illegal waterproof hat.
So now it's my turn.
I've started thinking about where I want to go. As it's only a week, I don't want to waste precious hours on a plane, so it will probably be somewhere in Europe, possibly Italy or Southern France. I just fancy a little glamour after the thick socks and walking boots of the last three years, and I am picturing myself wafting around the pool in a large floppy hat and heels. Naturally, I will have lost the excess baggage I have been hoisting around this year, so I will also be wearing an expensive bikini (and not denim cut offs and the obligatory walking boots).
Discussing this with the husband yesterday, he slipped a word into the conversation which has raised some concerns. He used the word 'we'....
Oh....so he thinks he's coming too. Best start looking for a pair of speedos for the old boy....
Luckily, I have a energetic and colourful imagination...
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