Sex on the beach...

After a completely Tasmanian Devil whirlwind of a week consisting of another sad funeral (my 'best' coat has been out more times in the last ten days than it has all year), dried fruit, present wrapping, two chats with California Kate, probable hypothermia after today's market trip with Mrs H and designing a new webpage for the Bird, I have finally sat down this evening and breathed a deep sigh of relief.  I have just enough time to write to you lovely lot, and then I have to go and find my suitcase.

Where are we off to now do I hear you ask?  Well ladies (and the occasional gentleman), the husband is whisking me off for a few days in London (one more than we anticipated) and then a few days in Bruges (one less than we anticipated).  Last Christmas, the kids bought us tickets to go and see Pete Tong doing something with Ibiza Classics at the O2.  Now, this will probably be music of some sort, but it did cross my mind as to whether Pete Tong was some old Ibiza bartender, and his 'classics' were multicoloured drinks with some submerged bits of tinned pineapple and a rather ropey paper umbrella perched jauntily on the top while a maraschino cherry finally gave up any idea of being suggestive, and slowly sank to the bottom of the glass. 

I expect we shall be the oldest there, which is never a bad thing, but I am predicting much harrumphing from the dear husband on Saturday night as he wishes to dear god that he had needed a hearing aid after the last test at the local opticians (I still don't get this crossover of skills, but nothing surprises me having seen my local garden centre proudly selling a radiator brush).  

We are spending a couple of days making the most of some lovely experience gifts which I got for my birthday (aren't I lovely, sharing them with the husband?  I surprise myself sometimes).  One of these is a gorgeous meal at a swanky restaurant which I am really looking forward to, but Sunday's 'treat' is a jet boat trip up the Thames.  In the small print, it says that waterproofs will be provided which is a harbinger of doom if I've ever seen one, so I am anticipating a clothing change behind a convenient statue along the Thames afterwards.

After hitting the fleshpots of London, we are off to Bruges on Eurostar to buy yet more Christmas tat.  I am so excited about this part of our trip as it's something I have wanted to do for years. These trips around Christmas in Europe always bring out the worst in the husband, and I am expecting to be hauled round at a stiff pace as he tries to cram a week's holiday into forty eight hours, and a foot long bratwurst into a five inch mouth.

We aren't taking the dogs this time.  This morning, son number one ferried them up to Leeds where son number two will look after them for the week. The two boys are together sorting out groom and best man stuff, so I imagine that there will be copious amount of drink consumed.

And that's just the dogs...