I’m way out of mine. My weekend nights used to involve a lot of wine, lazy chitchat, maybe cocktails, dinner at a restaurant and a late and bleary following morning. Also usually involving Messers Hunt, Lamb, Cripps, Fricker (and Mrs Fricker) and assorted other players.
Most people in this country don’t live like that. I was reminded of this when I went to a Friday night pub quiz with some friends (Natasha and Stephen) who rescued me from no-car-no-internet-no-work-no-interaction-with-people-week for a night. Hallelujah!
But I barely knew any of the answers. And the ones I thought I knew I got wrong. Serves me right. Turns out I don’t know my Lady Gaga from my Gwen Stefani, or my onions from my beans.
First duty Saturday morning was hollering at a pony-sized Rhodesian Ridgeback, until she got out of a cow-and-calf pen in the stables (before she ate all the calf shit, or was kicked in the head by the cow), then ‘escorting’ her back to the house.
Twice.
Then a new field - or at least a wet and muddy one, which I ran around in the rain, for an hour. With a hangover. With Tash, someone who is a potential Olympic althlete*.
And you know what? I bloody enjoyed all of it.
* Running ‘with’ in this case, really means running ‘quite far behind’.
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Went (proper, numerous clothes shops)shopping today in 4 inch heels, having forgotten I have spent most of the past 12 months in flip-flops/flats/trainers, but having read this I am safe in the knowledge that Ridgebacks are still blockheads and my fabulous sister makes me laugh through the frustration of sore feet and the fact that I have resorted to internet shopping, despite visiting 1 provincial city and a Spa town.(Although UK delivery only is now no longer a problem.) XX Virgin on the ridiculous indeed......
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