Talking to myself...

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Yesterday, I took the long trek up to Leeds to visit son number two for a couple of nights.  This was a long anticipated trip for both us, but for different reasons. I was looking forward to a 6'4" hug, and son number two was looking forward to three meals a day and a shopping trip to rival Imelda Marcos (he loves his shoes).

The trip up the M1 was relatively pain free, although I seemed to adopt the husband's habit of muttering, 'To**er', under my breath at sporadic intervals.  This was usually directed at those drivers who seemed to think that the middle lane is for coasting at 65mph completely oblivious of anything either side. 

But I made it to the hotel in one piece, and marvellous news, I got upgraded to a lovely room.  I haven't spent the night in a hotel on my own for many years, and I've started talking to myself again.  It is usually my mother's voice which speaks to me though...

'Which side of the bed shall I put your pyjamas?'
'Wash your cup up for the morning'.
'Where's the wine?' (Common question from the mother).
'Are there enough hangers?'

After an hour of this, I gave myself a good talking to ('Stop bloody talking to yourself, you mad bint') and went to meet son number two in the hotel bar.  Having had the obligatory hug and glass of wine, he hauled me round Leeds showing me all the important landmarks.

'That's where I get my hair cut'.
'That's the club I can't ever go back to again'.
'That's the Burger King which gives me free food'.
'That shop does the best sandwiches'.

Having had the un-official tour of Leeds, we ended up in a restaurant for dinner.  Son number two managed to eat more food in one sitting, than the husband and I have eaten in a month, and he then walked me home.

It's more of the same tomorrow.

My bank card is having a lie down and a double vodka in preparation...


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