I expected torrents of tears. Snorts of despair and denial, frantic rubbing of face with tissues. And that’s just me.
I’ll be frank, I once ended up at a model railway exhibition. I say once, it was last year and it was probably the single most misjudged outing of them all, and there have been a few. I don’t know what I was playing at or what I expected but it wasn’t what I got which was terrifying, suffocating, cloying, disappointing and strange, and not in a good way.
Most nights I get in the bath with the BUBs. Not every night, but most. Bath time without me getting in as well sounds like hard work. I need a lie down in amongst it.
An ex-colleague and treasured old friend remarked today how wistful she was for the old days of PR Christmas parties. I too have been missing the dizzy glare of ultra violet lights in fabulous venues, the endless round of mini canapes and the champagne burps at work the next day.
Day trips. Shudder. Most places we visit that require an entrance fee are at best a bitter disappointment and at worst a bitter regret.
Not only have you been robbed of the best part of a “pony”, you’re also left with rancid indigestion if you fall foul of the cafeteria and spend the majority of the day ankle deep in urine and loo roll as you trudge back and forth to the loos.