I just spent a lovely weekend with my mates from university in a place called Hope. The high Peaks are beautiful even if they are hard going for a rather indolent middle-aged woman whose usual exercise consists of hefting icecubes into the G&T. My companions were three other middle-aged women escaping their domestic responsibilities:
- a bass-playing, karate chopping classics teacher
- a would-be author
- a consultant physician who (she tells me) knows everything there is to know about constipation.
The weekend started, as these things often do, with an almighty piss-up on the Friday night and the rest of the weekend was spent trying to recover.*
We chatted a lot, shared book and music recommendations and photos of the kids** and generally put the world to rights. I ended up being a right old misery, which is my wont, so for that I apologise.
On the Sunday morning, despite weather which (if you were prone to understatement) could be described as inclement, I was entertained by hundreds of people wearing lycra running down an extremely steep slope outside my bedroom window. I have never encountered fell-runners close up before and came to the conclusion that these people are clearly insane.
The journey home would have daunted Shackleton but I just about made it home again, mainly thanks to having this and this to distract me from the horizontal sleet and lightning at Manchester airport.
So, it's good to be back blogchums, hope you haven't all deserted me whilst I've been gone.
*If you are ever tempted to drink this stuff make sure you have nothing important to do the next day.
**You never, never, never get used to seeing photos of the children of people you have known in your youth.
