Guess where Mr G is. Go on. Humour me. Make an uneducated guess. An educated one. A wild one. Take your pick. On one of the hottest days of the year. And which mode of transport he went by. Again. Oh yeah.
So it looks like were we planning on going to a wedding this weekend, and had I spent loads of money on five new outfits, four pairs of new shoes, make up, had my hair coloured and my body a ridiculous combo of 'burned' and 'the mythological creature who turned orange after drinking five litres of a Sunny D', not to mention paying in advance for rooms which I don't get a refund on... it's very likely that we wouldn't be going.
Believe me now? The curse is real, my friends. The curse is real...
What's wrong with him? Don't know. Had bloods taken, another x ray, hooked up to a morphine drip, currently on a ward waiting to see a registrar. I leave in an hour, bearing roast pork and stuffing baguettes and fresh orange juice. Hoping to find out more. Very hot, very bothered and very, very fed up with it all. After dealing with three hot, bothered and very fed up children all day. And when I get home, there's an £18 bottle of Chianti with my name on it. Well, not literally my name, it's not like one of those Coca Cola bottles or anything... But it's getting opened, and I'm going to go in the summerhouse and I'm going to drink it. All. By. Myself. And grieve the loss of a too-rare night in a hotel bed. And a lovely meal in our favourite little pub in Corwen on the way home, for Adam's birthday. Meh.
M (eh) x