Terrorific.
Yes indeedy. So much did I miss the joys of traveling (trying to sleep whilst balanced on a vibrating, two inch ledge, the thwack of suitcase on pavement) that I elected to journey the old-fashioned way back to Blighty; by train. Alighting in Paris with hours to spare before the first Eurostar I could afford to catch without robbing a bank, I took advantage of le efficient baggage storage services before heading into Montmartre for a reasonably priced coffee and sandwich. Wishing to avail myself of the same facilities back in the U.K, I found neither on hand. “Left luggage?” repeated the 'ticketing and fares consultant', sucking air through his teeth and surreptitiously reaching for the panic button under the counter (“control, the red flag is flying, repeat, the RED FLAG is flying”), “there's no left luggage no more. State of High Alert y'see”. Quite right too. Even now fanatical dentistry professionals are surely unfurling a map of Britain. “Look loyal comrades. We shall strike at the infidel's beating heart. Cheltenham Spa shall be our next target. Praise be to Allah”.
Why Does It Always Rain On Me?
Contrary to tradition I arrived back to Best Of British summer weather (it didn't piss it down for ooh, four whole days) depriving folk of the opportunity to trot out the old favorites; 'it been lovely up till now' (usually followed by 'you're not very brown', read; 'you don't spend all your time at the beach, your life isn't better than mine after all'). Afternoon sunbeams transformed four square meters beside a busy Bristol road into a little pub-garden-of-Eden and, as nostalgia and fondness danced a tango we quaffed our ale and remarked how nice it was that the new smoking ban was having the added benefit (boom, boom) of raising the public profile of the unemployed.
My Baby Just Cares For Top-Of-The-Range Designer Baby-Grows.
Whilst the birth rate of most developed nations goes into nose-dive it's good to see we're still 'breeding for Britain' (one way of outnumbering the 'threat from within' Daily Mailers take note). Not a bus journey goes by these days without having to crawl up the wall Spidey-style to avoid the four-wheel drive, all-terrain Humvee buggies blocking the aisles because, after all, a little bundle of joy (and green poo) the size and weight of a rugby ball does need a vehicle recently decommissioned by the S.A.S to be hauled about in doesn't it? Each visit reveals more friends gone 'over the top', transformed into gibbering, permaskint, sleep deprived wrecks (strangely reminiscent of our younger days but without the quality drugs this time round). Evenings in front of Changing Rooms become evenings changing nappies. 'It's different when they're yours' you cry. Damn straight it is; you can't give 'em back. Ladies and gentlemen, the ovaries have left the building.
Before I get branded as a child-hating lesbian it should be pointed out that your author is currently surrounded by little darlings in Italy and looking pretty pregnant herself as a result of a couple of weeks on the Raging Bull diet at the hands of hosts intent on producing English-teacher foie gras ('mange, mange, mange'). Paid aversion therapy and the chance to indulge megalomaniac tendencies in the role of the Big Formagio. What could be better? Fee fi fo fum, I smell the blood of a child running on the stairs. Ciao ciao.
Yes indeedy. So much did I miss the joys of traveling (trying to sleep whilst balanced on a vibrating, two inch ledge, the thwack of suitcase on pavement) that I elected to journey the old-fashioned way back to Blighty; by train. Alighting in Paris with hours to spare before the first Eurostar I could afford to catch without robbing a bank, I took advantage of le efficient baggage storage services before heading into Montmartre for a reasonably priced coffee and sandwich. Wishing to avail myself of the same facilities back in the U.K, I found neither on hand. “Left luggage?” repeated the 'ticketing and fares consultant', sucking air through his teeth and surreptitiously reaching for the panic button under the counter (“control, the red flag is flying, repeat, the RED FLAG is flying”), “there's no left luggage no more. State of High Alert y'see”. Quite right too. Even now fanatical dentistry professionals are surely unfurling a map of Britain. “Look loyal comrades. We shall strike at the infidel's beating heart. Cheltenham Spa shall be our next target. Praise be to Allah”.
Why Does It Always Rain On Me?
Contrary to tradition I arrived back to Best Of British summer weather (it didn't piss it down for ooh, four whole days) depriving folk of the opportunity to trot out the old favorites; 'it been lovely up till now' (usually followed by 'you're not very brown', read; 'you don't spend all your time at the beach, your life isn't better than mine after all'). Afternoon sunbeams transformed four square meters beside a busy Bristol road into a little pub-garden-of-Eden and, as nostalgia and fondness danced a tango we quaffed our ale and remarked how nice it was that the new smoking ban was having the added benefit (boom, boom) of raising the public profile of the unemployed.
My Baby Just Cares For Top-Of-The-Range Designer Baby-Grows.
Whilst the birth rate of most developed nations goes into nose-dive it's good to see we're still 'breeding for Britain' (one way of outnumbering the 'threat from within' Daily Mailers take note). Not a bus journey goes by these days without having to crawl up the wall Spidey-style to avoid the four-wheel drive, all-terrain Humvee buggies blocking the aisles because, after all, a little bundle of joy (and green poo) the size and weight of a rugby ball does need a vehicle recently decommissioned by the S.A.S to be hauled about in doesn't it? Each visit reveals more friends gone 'over the top', transformed into gibbering, permaskint, sleep deprived wrecks (strangely reminiscent of our younger days but without the quality drugs this time round). Evenings in front of Changing Rooms become evenings changing nappies. 'It's different when they're yours' you cry. Damn straight it is; you can't give 'em back. Ladies and gentlemen, the ovaries have left the building.
Before I get branded as a child-hating lesbian it should be pointed out that your author is currently surrounded by little darlings in Italy and looking pretty pregnant herself as a result of a couple of weeks on the Raging Bull diet at the hands of hosts intent on producing English-teacher foie gras ('mange, mange, mange'). Paid aversion therapy and the chance to indulge megalomaniac tendencies in the role of the Big Formagio. What could be better? Fee fi fo fum, I smell the blood of a child running on the stairs. Ciao ciao.
posted by Kate at 12:50 PM
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