Observations

Some days I look like I dressed in the dark

If I pack a few days early I will always feel the need to empty everything out at 6.30am on the day of travel, and re-pack in a muddle, with an extra top I won’t wear

My suitcase on wheels hates me

No matter how much I aim for ‘elegant traveller’ I get ‘harassed bag-lady’

If I have heavy bags I always have to run for a train

My hair has gone free-range in the excitement

If I go away I nearly always forget to take something crucial (this time my brush)

As you may have surmised, I am off for the bank holiday! I will be pegging it down to Euston train station after work to meet good friend R and then we will set off for a Famous Five adventure (minus two others and Timmy the dog). We are heading north to the Lake District, where will spend daylight hours striding over hill and dale, and twilight hours in cosy pubs with ale and pie. I am taking chapter five to glance at occasionally and fret, and R is taking paints and sketch pad. I am also taking waterproofs galore… oh the glamour of the ‘mac-in-a-pack’. Oh the style of waterproof trousers. For some reason I went for navy… perfect in case I ever have to do community service, or wish to become a refuse collector. In fact, my whole hiking wardrobe has been cobbled together from various snowboarding holidays, bygone school day-trips to France, and my entire collection of fleece jumpers. None of it matches, is a brand name, or even really is the same colour, thinking about it. *hangs head*

Still, some hikers are rather eccentric, aren’t they? I’ll probably blend in quite well. I remember my last visit to the Lakes six years ago, winding our way ever higher in the grey drizzle, and finally reaching the peak to find clusters of determined people sitting in the rain and howling gale grimly eating sandwiches. They are a strange lot at times. But that is why I like it.

I take the same motto as the scouts when thinking about holidaying in England – ‘be prepared’. As long as I am warm and dry then I have no problem with our weather – rain, sun, buffeting wind – it’s nice to smell the green and feel alive. I like the sense of time walking gives you, the feeling that nothing is rushed, and the way the hills seem to whisper ‘let it go’ about all your problems. City worries seem mindless and petty in the face of nature. We endure, we last forever, the hills and sky seem to say. When you realise that, then it is perfectly fine to sit back and watch the clouds.

Looking 'peaky'

"You feeling alright? You're looking a bit peaky!" said my mum this morning. J also said I was looking a bit peaky the other day - and it's always 'a bit' peaky - it never reaches full on peaky status. Good friend I also mentioned my peakiness last week - it's official then. I am a bit peaky.

I don't like being told I am a bit peaky. I think I am just fine, with a slight cold. But once it is elevated to peakiness, then I start to feel peaky, and from there on in it is a spiralling circle of doom.

What is 'peaky' anyway? Where did this word come from? Peaky apparently means 'not at your peak' so not at your best. This sort of translates to me that basically I just look rough. Nice. Always what a girl wants to hear.

So to combat looking rough, my chosen weapons are lem-sip, sleep, and snuggly jumpers. This would be the weekend when I really wanted to get on and write, wouldn't it? I have managed zero editing, and even clicking the document open seems a tough call to make. Yet back at work tomorrow (as you just know these sort of cold things get better for working days) and I will rue my missed opportunity. Maybe I could print out the bit I want to work on and find myself a quite corner at lunch? See - now that feels pro-active. But then I have to actually turn on the printer, and find paper, and click 'print...

*yawns again and buries head under quilt*

Damp Bank Holiday

Today I popped over to the local shop to get some milk for breakfast and came back looking like I’d just gone for a swim in the monsoon season. Yet again, miserable May bank holiday weather has put paid to a wonderful classic car pageant that is held on a field near me – for the past three years it has been rained off. This year it was all set up yesterday, and then swoosh! I dread to picture the scene today – I expect it involves lots of classic cars being winched off the scene covered in mud. Still, we all know classic car owners like to tinker (with the car) in their garages, so this will give them plenty to do for the upcoming weeks.

I really am gutted though, as it is a fab pageant, from what I remember. They have this odd car boot sale to rummage through that looks like someone has tipped the contents of their shed onto tarpaulin – tons of odd rusted bits that only mean something if you own a 1964 Ford Galaxie, or a 1971 Morris Minor. But along with the rusted bits come things like old radios, badges, records, and of course – picnic baskets! I have a bit of a thing for picnic baskets (as you may recall) – the best cars are the ones where a wicker picnic basket looks perfectly at home on the back seat. All other cars are inferior, in my world at least.

Before I veer off into a daydream of the perfect picnic (and the criteria is ‘would the Famous Five eat it?'), today dinner consists of an old fish. Quite literally – me and John decided to explore the freezer and unearthed a fish that we’d bought in August last year. It is currently defrosting in a pan of cold water and the excitement of the day is seeing if it is still edible. The take away menus are standing by, just in case.

So apart from that and catching up on odd admin (every year I bat away my student loan repayments with a swift back hand that would make tennis players proud), for some reason I am rediscovering music of 1988. Not a great vintage, as I am finding out, my top 10 for the year *at the time - very important to remember that!* was probably:

Orinoco Flow - Enya
Requiem - The London Boys

Heaven is a Place On Earth - Belinda Carlisle

Boys (Summertime Love) - Sabrina

I Should Be So Lucky - Kylie

Smooth Criminal - Michael Jackson

Push It - Salt 'n' Pepa

When Will I Be Famous - Bros

I Want You Back - Bananarama

Theme from S-Express - S-Express

Looking back at these videos how on earth did Sabrina with her bouncy summertime love get through the censors? The London Boys (RIP) had some ill-advised outfits (unless they were strippers?), Belinda Carlisle's director had spent all of £11 at some Poundland and Kylie looks about ten. Oh how we all wanted a perm like Kylie's... But what I really remember is how much I loved the Theme from S-Express. Of course, I never cottoned on it was 'sex' in the title - oh no. I used to play the single over and over - some doing when you only have a record player (lift needle, click back, move to front of single, lower needle - repeat).

Bank holiday madness

For those of us not attempting to journey into London for the Notting Hill Carnival (easy enough to get to, as hard to leave the area as a fly escaping a Venus Flytrap), the only plan was to drive away from town, due North.

Every bank holiday it is the same, a wave of cabin fever sets in around 10am, and suddenly we are hauling maps around the living room wondering where we can escape to. John has the idea that everywhere in the UK is fairly accessible for a daytrip as long as a) I am ready to leave right now, and don’t stop to pick up that hairbrush again; b) he has petrol and c) enough cigarettes to see him there and safely back again. At this point he will be considering Exeter, Northumberland and the Penines.

I, however, will have nothing more concrete in my head than ‘wouldn’t it be nice to go to a little village’, and am convinced little villages with welcoming pubs that do roast dinners are a) up the road a bit, b) can therefore wait while I find my hairbrush as well as c) sort out a bottle of squash and some biscuits for the journey. At this point I will be considering a big vague area called countryside. This is different to when I get it into my head to find a beach, John will be thinking Cornwall, and I will be thinking vague thoughts of an area called seaside.

We decided instead on Duxford, as it has an amazing Imperial War Museum full of planes, keeping both of us happy.

To anyone who hasn’t been, Duxford is huge and full of British planes, American planes and exhibitions such as The Battle of Britain. It is a large airfield to walk around, and since it is a working airfield, there is a pleasing backdrop of light aircraft taking off and pulling up as you stroll about.

It does leach money from you though, albeit in a forgivable subtle way. “Donate your tax from the entry fee!” said a smiling twinkle-eyed lady on the way in. This translated into donating roughly £4 on top of the £15 it costs each adult to get in, although with that you get a £1.50 voucher to spend in the shop (guaranteeing you will buy something on your exit that will no doubt cost more than £1.50). Then there was the coffee shop – 65p per piece of fruit, which was like a toddler size apple. Then there are extra prices to ride in tanks, appeals to help save certain planes, raffles… Actually the raffle was well worth it, £1 for the chance in a million to fly in a Spitfire or Lancaster. We bought two; the man in front bought ten…

But hey, it is a great place with some beautiful planes, so we gave willingly (apart from the fruit squizz, they can so keep their apples). We watched large tanks do a large tank demonstration (surprisingly nifty), we read a highly amusing leaflet given to GI’s before they came over to Britain, ('Thames' is pronounced ‘Tems’, British people play rugger “which is like American Football but without all the padding”), and I think I recognised a Mustang take off in the distance. Since I call everything a Spitfire, Stearman or ‘plane’, I was rather proud, in a 'John didn't see it all that clearly so I can speak with authority' sort of way.