Tell me lies...

So having spent three hours in the power tool section of the beauty salon yesterday afternoon, I felt suitably coiffed and gorgeous, and after a mini lay in this morning, the husband suggested that we have lunch in the pub where we had our post wedding meal all those years ago.  Thinking to myself that it was money and time well spent if I was going to get offers like this, I laid in bed trying to decide what to wear for a posh lunch with the husband.

As he set down a second cup of tea next to the bed (could my Sunday get any better?) he said to me, 'You better drink this and then get up.  It's 9.00 already'.  He'd booked the table for 12.30, so I said something to him along the lines of 'having plenty of time'to which he replied, 'It'll take us at least an hour to get there'.

And so the question as to what to wear to this posh pub had but one answer.  Walking boots.

Now I don't mind a walk.  Much of my free time is spent tramping through various woods, and it was a lovely day, so putting my best foot forward (in aforementioned walking boot) we left the house at 10.30.

Over the years, I have come to learn that when the husband tells me that something is 'an hour away', I need to double it to get an accurate idea as to when I can hope to reach my destination.  The other thing I've learned is that when the husband tells me that 'it's all downhill from here', he is a dirty, lying b*stard, and should not be trusted.

Such was the walk today.  Seven miles of uphill at a stonking pace with the husband telling me on several occasions to 'stop dawdling' in the vain hope that we would get there within the predicted one hour. 

Fat chance.  Two hours later, we turned up at the pub.  Sweat was pouring down my over-ripe tomato face.  I had removed my coat and my jumper as it was so hot, and was now wearing just a white vest with a purple bra (classy).  I also had two leads strapped across my body and a dog whistle swinging from side to side. The husband looked across at me as we walked across the road to the pub.  'Come on gorgeous', he said.'Nearly there'.

Gorgeous?  I looked like Indiana Jones (without the hat) and said as much to the husband.

'All you need is a bullwhip'. he said as we walked into the pub.  Looking round at all the smartly dressed men and the ladies with every hair in place and a glass of crisp white wine in their hand, I said to the husband that he could put it down on my Christmas list this year.

But first I needed cider.....and a lot of it...many times...