I’m back from an overnight trip to Cornwall, where we stayed in the lovely Lizzy and Dave‘s TPO camping coach at St Germans, drank lots of wine and waved at trains. Sometimes whilst wearing Cybermen or Dalek Sec helmets. Hen nights, eh?
We also wandered around the village the next morning, including into the pub for a breakfast and then across a field in which the sheep singularly failed to turn out into ravenous hordes, and got sunburnt in March. Truly, Cornwall is a magical place.
The night before we had cocktails at Exeshed (overpriced and weak, to my mind – I miss Rachel at the Kino bar), followed by sangria in La Tasca (because I wanted spanish food), a trip to another bar and then, finally, a farewell to arms. In other words, a 45 minute visit to upstairs at Timepiece where I realised that the smoking ban makes nightclubs a lot less fun. Or, perhaps, reveals just how dank and desperate they always were. I think it is safe to say I am not filled with grief at leaving that world behind.
Thank you very much to all the friends that came along: aren’t you impressed I didn’t actually a) throw up, b) start a fight or c) get thrown out of anywhere? Well, technically, we were thrown off the landed gentry’s estate, but that may have been the most polite and genteel ejection from a place I’ve ever had and certainly didn’t involve any armlocks.