I’ve lost my mojo, my driving force, my raison d'tere.  Its been completely devoured by over-work.  I’ve really gotta stop this hectic typing, its killing me.  I'm planning to figure out a good work-life balance with the aid of a calculator, kitchen scales, a calendar and a very large bottle of the hard stuff... as soon as I can find the time.

So anyway, mojo-less and a bit berluddy knackered, I said to Hubs, “Hols?”

Hubs, slumped on the sofa exhausted from lifting heavy steel at work (or whatever it is he does, I’m not quite sure), nodded weakly.

And there began a three week debate.  Ideas were raised and squashed, suggestions made and vetoed.  We almost came to blows at one point (not really, we didn’t have the energy). 

Hubs wanted to go to Rhodes (again!), I wanted to cut my way through the Amazon forest with a really big knife.  Hubs wanted to go to the Canaries (again!), I was ready to jump on a motorbike*/pushbike/roller blades and wheelie my way round the world.

Hubs wanted sun, sand and sex, I wanted adventure, freedom and the feel of exotic insects in my hair.  You can see our problem.

In the end, having exhausted the realms of possibilities (and discovering I couldn’t take a really big knife on a plane to the Amazon), and because the Euro has eaten our pound (bar steward), we decided to stick to the UK.  Because its cheap(ish), because there’s nothing in our bank accounts except tumbleweeds and a furry boiled sweet, and because sometimes we can be really tight gits.

UK it is then, that narrowed it down a bit. 

Next question: Where?

That was six days debate on its own.  “Camping?” I shrugged, and Hubs started ranting about bad backs and decrepitude (mine, apparently), smelly sleeping bags and drenched belongings.  He said his days of lying, frozen and stiff, in the middle of some muddy field were long over.  Well okay then!

Holiday cottage?  Hubs ranted on about cost and price and expense, then got slightly interested.  “Will it be remote?” he asked, clearly needing to get away from it all as much as I did.  I found remote.  I found remote so remote the nearest shop was 20 miles away, nearest pub/restaurant 30 mile, and there was no TV or telephone reception, that’s remote.  Hubs still wasn’t happy.

That’s when the physical fighting started.  Or would have done, if we’d had the strength.

In the end, after three long weeks of heated debate, we managed to agree on Scotland, because its pretty and because that’s where whisky comes from. 

As we still can’t make up our minds what we’re going to do in Scotland, we’re ‘winging it’ and doing a road trip with no advance bookings.  This always sounds brilliant in theory – the freedom of the road, go where we want, when we want for as long as we want – but the reality, as we discovered in America, is usually sobbing panic about having to sleep in the car when there’s No Room At The Inn.  We like to live life on the edge, oh yeah.

So we’re off, to the Highlands, me taking the high road (as usual), Hubs taking the low road ... Hubs in the car, me on a 1200cc Virago with customised paintwork and illegal baffle… I wish.

Scotland, brace yerselves, we're coming!

* Watched ‘Long Way Round’ and ‘Long Way Down’ this week, which probably isn’t the best thing to stick in the DVD player when you’ve had chronically itchy feet for months.  Yes, Ewan McGregor is lovely and Charlie Boorman is lovely, but honestly, I’ve totally got the hots for Russ Malkin… hubba hubba.

Thursday 2

My God it was hot today, the air didn’t move at all.  My laptop overheated and forced me to stop werk, for which I was eternally grateful.  I really should bite the bullet (or bite the chip) and get a new laptop, but I can’t bring myself to do it, (a) because I’m allergic to spending money, and (b) I can’t stand the thought of starting up a new relationship with a new keyboard.

So anyway, Hubs and I lay on top of the bed last night, ceiling fan shifting the heavy heat around, sweating profusely.  Hubs drifted off, flat on his back, arms at his side, snoring softly with his mouth open.  I looked at this studness of manhood, as white as a milk bottle and glowing slightly in the dark, and was overcome by hysteria.

I woke him up.  “What are you laughing at?” he grunted.

“You,” I gasped.

“Yep, thanks.”  Pause.  “Why are you laughing at me?”

“Because,” I said, “You look just like an alien autopsy.”

Of course, when he’s not laying flat on his back and glowing in the dark, he looks just like Harrison Ford/Clint Eastwood/Mel Gibson/Alan Rickman (delete as appropriate, Hubs x).

Anything else happening?...

CURRENT MONTH

The Naive Brits Guide to an American Road Trip  Go read, go comment, go tell US immigration that we're perfect candidates for a prolonged stay in their country.

     “Oh this is just a holder for my spirit,” ‘Granny’ said, fluffing up her hair.  “I could have
      picked Toyah Wilcox, but I couldn’t get my teeth round the lisp.”

"Why does Granny look like Julie Walters?"

"More to the point, why does Grandpa look like Ozzy Osbourne?"

“Good evening,” said the crypt keeper in a deep, resonant voice.

Cavanna twirled round in delight and cried, “It’s Trevor bloody Eve!”

     This is a star-studded tale of ghostly goings-on also featuring:
     Toyah Wilcox, JRR Tolkien, Barbara Cartland, Jaspar Carrot, Roy Wood, Lenny Henry, Adrian Chiles, Bill Oddie,
     Lisa Clayton, Jamelia, Nigel Mansell, Christine McVie, Matthew Boulton, George Cadbury, John Wyndham and
     Tony Hancock... all Brummies (although suspect Black Country folk will be up in arms about some of those)
     Frank Skinner also due to make a guest appearance.

     Chapter One   *   Chapter Two   *   Chapter Three   *   Chapter Four   *   Chapter Five

     Chapter Six   *   Chapter Seven   *   Chapter Eight   *   Chapter Nine   *   Chapter Ten (nag me)

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