Okay, here’s the story of the film so far. New Wife is safely at home with her #1 Son’s family.
I am safely at home in Plano, minus the cost of a roundtrip DFW-SYD airfare and visa application cost, as well as a Qantas seat-selection fee, seat of course never having been used.
Motherfucker. I think I’ll go to the river nearby, find an angry cottonmouth snake and bite its fucking head off.
Not me, just New Wife. I’ll explain later.
Seems as though a Murkin couple went over to Britishland for the first time, and enjoyed the experience:
Two Americans who recently visited the UK for the first-ever time have revealed the good, the bad, the weird and the scary of their trip, with driving in Devon and Cornwall falling into the latter category.
…
The rest of the trip was a big hit, though, with the locals being nice to them ‘everywhere we went’.
‘We didn’t want to leave,’ the couple said.
…
‘…the UK seems to have a reputation for having bad food, which we did not find to be true at all. We had so much amazing food in the UK! We already miss things that we don’t have in America like scones with clotted cream or chips with curry sauce.’
No argument from me on any of the above, although I’d pass on the curry chips for a nice sausage roll.
Read the whole article for more. But they seem to have got it right.
Got back to my lair (see above) late last night, and am now safely ensconced therein.
Of course, nothing ever runs to plan, and in this case it’s because Stupid Kim forgot his laptop power cord in Boise. But thanks to the ever-resourceful Mo K., it should be delivered to my sooper-seekrit mailing address sometime this afternoon, so proper blogging should recommence tomorrow. See y’all then.
Four, count ’em four snow storms between Boise and Denver.
Maybe tomorrow will be better, when we reach the parts of the country that are actually having spring, with flowers and grass and stuff.
And lo did Your Humble Narrator arrive with his squire, Mark C. unto the hostelry known as the House Of So-Called Friend Jay K. and his Wyffe, the lovely Mo (who is most surely a Witch).
And these fiends did ply Our Weary Travelers with much drinke, most especially the liqueuere called Morangie for Your Humble Narrator, and for his squire a hogshead of ale brewed locally.
There was Feasting and Merriment unto an hour so late that the cocks had long since crowed and gone back in for their Cockly Breakfast, of what I know not.
And there was no Bloggynge script inscribed, for which Your Humble Narrator begs fulsome pardonne.
With heads verily sore, and throats as the desert, did Our Weary Travelers resume their journey south, more or lesse, towards the city close to the mountains, in which it is said there lurk many dragons who would steal most foully Your Humble Narrator’s trusty Sword.