This Year’s Dirty Weekend

Our night away did not begin well.

Before boarding our train to London we popped into a delicatessen to get lunch. Being the ginormous greedy pig I am, I gobbled a piece of taster bread without first reading what was on it. I don’t know how many times you’ve put something unexpected in your mouth, but it is a very unpleasant experience. Or, in the case of duck pate when you’re a vegetarian of nearly thirty years, totally fucking revolting.

I ran out the deli, and searched for a back-alley drain to discreetly yak in. I needn’t have bothered.  When I came back to the shop Andrew was doubled up laughing, explaining to all the other customers and shop assistants that oh god, his wife is vegetarian and she just ate the pate and HA! HA! HAAAAA!!!! she’s just had to run out to be sick and have you ever seen anything so funny in your life???!!!.

Somehow he survived the train journey. Things looked up when we got to Waterloo and found an amazing pub tucked down a side street. We had a few drinks and googled local house prices gazed into each other’s eyes. But we couldn’t be kept from our hotel room for long.

The rugby was due to start.

Thrillingly, this meant that while Andrew was busy watching the match I could read a magazine. Yep, in the day. Marie Antoinette eat your heart out, this was decadence indeed.

shard
Is that a shard in your…oh whatever

We left our hotel for dinner. At six. Judge away, but now we have little people, eating any time after 5pm is to be considered wildly sophisticated. We went to The Ned.  Sadly the Flapper girls weren’t performing, although that was probably just as well because last time we were there my sisters and I got a bit creepy-fan about them. At about eight we walked the whole way from Bank to Soho and ate stale cake outside Café Nero on Old Compton Street. At half past nine we went home.

This makes it sound a bit shit. But it wasn’t. That’s the really good thing about being pissed by three in the afternoon; anything past seven is a bonus, plus you get the hangover over and done with by 4am.  Also, I adore my husband. He is funny and kind and interesting. I always hope that he’s the person who’s next going to walk into a room. The chance for just the two of us to hang out was brilliant. Being away for the night gave us the chance to talk about…actually I can’t remember, but it was a very nice break from collapsing at home on the couch and not being able to decide what to watch on Netflix.

But let’s not get too carried away.

The next morning I woke up leaden with sadness about missing the children. A normally one hour train journey took two because of a bus replacement service. When we got home I walked in the door, nearly weeping with longing for the kids. Before I even put my bag on the floor, Raff shit himself. I spent the next twenty minutes cleaning him, then cleaning me. Gross, but at least I’d paid my karmic debt for having such a nice time the day before.

Nope.

Later that night the puppy woke us at 1am, 2am, 3am and 4am, howling to be let out because it had diarrhoea. You do not need to go all the way to London to have a dirty weekend.

 

 

 

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