Turn me over, Mother. This side's done...

Not so much a weekend as an après semaine.

I disappeared up to Foxton in Cambridgeshire to see the Waltenbergs sans LJ, my little Goddaughter, and The Herr Major.

The plan was simple: a barbeque on Saturday evening with more cans of BEER than any sane man would want, and then, on Sunday, train out to Bury St Edmunds (Friends, Romans, Countrymen. I come to Bury St Edmunds...) to watch Lincolnshire play Norfolk in the Minor Counties League. Yes, we thought we'd actually pay to watch crap cricket.

Of course, the barbeque happened, and much BEER was drunk, but Sunday never got started. It appears that while Uncle Bry was snoring like unto a drain all night, and the Herr Major was doing whatever Herr Majors do in the other guest bedroom, the hassled parents were up and down to minister to the needs of the teething sproglet.

So, come 9am, only one of us was in any fit state to get on a train to go and watch cricket. So we compromised.

As soon as the sun was over the yard arm we broke out the cans of BEER until the pub opened and then went there for more BEER. But it being a Sunday, and Foxton being in the Country, the pub closed at 3pm.

How quaint.

So. Back to the chez Waltenbergs and back to the cans of BEER in the fridge.

I am sunburnt, knackered and hungover. And there was nary a cloud in the sky all weekend. God, but it was hot. But it was not humid and it was not London.

Fab.

Back to work for a rest in the morning.

Not so fab.

Turn me over, Mother. This side's done...

Not so much a weekend as an après semaine.

I disappeared up to Foxton in Cambridgeshire to see the Waltenbergs sans LJ, my little Goddaughter, and The Herr Major.

The plan was simple: a barbeque on Saturday evening with more cans of BEER than any sane man would want, and then, on Sunday, train out to Bury St Edmunds (Friends, Romans, Countrymen. I come to Bury St Edmunds...) to watch Lincolnshire play Norfolk in the Minor Counties League. Yes, we thought we'd actually pay to watch crap cricket.

Of course, the barbeque happened, and much BEER was drunk, but Sunday never got started. It appears that while Uncle Bry was snoring like unto a drain all night, and the Herr Major was doing whatever Herr Majors do in the other guest bedroom, the hassled parents were up and down to minister to the needs of the teething sproglet.

So, come 9am, only one of us was in any fit state to get on a train to go and watch cricket. So we compromised.

As soon as the sun was over the yard arm we broke out the cans of BEER until the pub opened and then went there for more BEER. But it being a Sunday, and Foxton being in the Country, the pub closed at 3pm.

How quaint.

So. Back to the chez Waltenbergs and back to the cans of BEER in the fridge.

I am sunburnt, knackered and hungover. And there was nary a cloud in the sky all weekend. God, but it was hot. But it was not humid and it was not London.

Fab.

Back to work for a rest in the morning.

Not so fab.