Ice-cream Sunday   Leave a comment

(B)Racing.

Sunday morning’s ridiculously early sporting event was the F1 Grand Prix. I’m a bit more interested in F1 than rugby, but not interested enough to watch it (and probably wouldn’t even if I had a telly licence or aerial), especially when it starts at five or six in the morning. On a Sunday.

Actually, the notion of caring about anything enough that you’d get up that early just so you could watch it live on the telly seems pretty ludicrous. Maybe a Mars landing, or some other once-ever occurrance, but sport? People do sport all the time.

Still, what other people do doesn’t bother me if I don’t hear it, and the first I heard was a national anthem (so somebody won) when I woke up of my own/my bladder’s accord. Eventually I got up a little earlier than I would during the week, so I was a little sleepy, but not too bad.

First call of the day was a walk to a nearby cafe for a massive fry-up. Two of just about everything, and one of almost everything else; it even came with a few chips. If it’d had black pudding it’d’ve been perfect, although I don’t think anyone was hungry when we’d finished (or even before attacking the infinite toast). Northerners do good breakfasts.

On the way home we perused the farm-shop next door, and I grabbed a few gifts, goodies, and some garlic. I saw brussels sprouts on their stalks for, I think, the first time in real life; I’d only discovered how they grew recently. Funny how many little things there are that you don’t know but don’t think to go and look up.

Next stop: The beach! The girls went paddling, whilst the men were manly and played with our balls. Well, one of Dave’s hairy balls, anyway. By the time we’d finished with it it had nearly split in half, from hitting the wet sand, or the rim of the velcro catchy-pad things.
It was a bit more bracing on the beach than back at camp, but still warm and sunny, especially when running around, and pleasant weather to sit and read. And eat ice-cream. But it’s almost always pleasant to eat ice-cream. I made mine a 99, as is only right and proper, with extra chocolate poured onto it which set hard on the top. That was fun. And tasty.

All too soon, alas, it was time to return to the “caravan” (it wasn’t concreted in to the ground, so I suppose you could technically move it, but it seems the wrong word for something more luxorious than my house) for a spot of tidying, and then home. More sport on the radio; football this time, and it was a draw. Hopefully my having the window open wasn’t a nuisance, but nobody complained.

It’s funny how that even when I enjoy going away somewhere – and I happily would have stayed for longer – I’m happy and relieved to get home and lock the doors behind me. I was tired, and slightly headachey and nauseous (cars! And also hungriness, despite my enthusiastic weekend’s stuffing), so getting back into my own, quiet house was nice.

As well as a fairly light dinner, I decided that one final abuse of my not-having-to-log-food was in order, and ate another packet of the fancy biscuits that hadn’t all been finished in Skeggy. Mmm, biscuits.

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Posted 24 October 2011 by Colthor in Diary

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