This summer I went away from my son for a whole five and a half days.
I couldn’t stop eating on the day I set off for
We made a batch of Cornish Pasties – though not strictly Cornish as we’re in Sussex. This arguement goes – ‘Yes, yes. I wish you hadn’t gone on about Geoffrey Boycott earlier, I wanted to be home with Tiny for one hour’ – ‘you should have said’ – ‘I did!’
Arrived in Liverpool. My brain was literally shouting ‘you are in Paul McCartneys’ HOUSE’ as soon as I stepped off the train. And I patronisingly thought that Daniel Johnson was naive and entertaining when he said, ‘hello London, home of The Beatles’. Though to be fair, his gig was so wonderful that we were nearly all crying. His comment allowed us to turn our gulpy tears into a choked laugh.
It was all right actually, being away from Mr Tiny. I just didn’t think about him too much. He was fine without me anyway. Which was slightly galling.
the bit about ‘it’s in my genes’ is what cynically pops into my head sometimes when I’m overwhelmed with feeling. When I’m being really soppy over him, I remember that it’s natures way of making sure I don’t eat him
The first Liverpudlian lady I saw was wearing a pink velour track suit and had four to six enormous rollers in her hair. Apparently it’s a sort of status symbol ‘look at me, I’m going somewhere so important that I don’t have time to do my hair before I go’. This was all according to a make up artist, I’m not being a snob.