Practically invisible

So elusive in fact, that I haven't written anything for ages....

I have been on holiday though and with the mum being the only source of computer for a couple of days, I was loathe to log in. She's incredibly nosey and is far too intrigues about blogging since I explained what one was. Oh yes, and the fact that I have one....oops. Schoolgirl error.

Much to write but am on day 2 of what seems to be a 2 day hangover. Not good. I am so elderly.

I also have come back to a mountain of work and had the work dread feeling of doom this morning.

On the flip side, Wednesday is a bank holiday which I am overjoyed about.

Flat pack chat

And so my Saturday just gone was pretty similar to the one that went before, although slightly less evil I might admit.

I trekked down the motorway (AGAIN) with the mother of all hangovers (AGAIN) and dragged my feet into the hell that is that bastard Ikea (AGAIN) on a Saturday.
Due to my vegetative remedial state the Saturday before, I had bought the wrong bed slats. Arse.

I did manage to find some junk food to follow the fucker of a mission however, which mildly eased my situation. Then promptly and predictably made me feel sick. Standard.

The weekend camping was very good indeed although there was a mistral blowing at night which increased in severity last night. The smug mother and smug sister were all wrapped up in the gently rocking caravan with a fan on to circulate the stifling air temperature.

Myself and my friend on the other hand, were battling it out in the awning whilst lines snapped, tent pegs flew out, poles buckled and the brown dust stuck to our sweaty foreheads.
A pretty terrible nights sleep by all accounts.

I had not expected such discomfort and extreme elements of a July weekend in the south of France. I shall be retiring early this evening. In a bed. In a flat. With a fan.

Weak end

What a shocker. Friday night was reasonably drunken. Three crying girls at various points of the evening, one ranting Irish girl, a sobbing Welsh one and a lurking Mum to be entertained to boot.
The night ended well with the current fave chap joining me in the pub. We chatted lots, laughed a bit, I took the piss out of him a great deal and then we walked home together around 4.30am.

Dearest Mother woke me at 8am the following morning, talking at the top of her voice into her mobile phone....as only mothers can. She was on the phone to my sister, who happened to be in northern France, and it was like she was talking loud enough so that my sister might hear.
Being virtually talentless at sleeping I knew that was it. I was up. I was fuming.

I could barely look at her let alone talk to her and stormed out the flat with my head pounding and my mum knowing better than to ask questions.

I had the day from hell ahead.

After driving 2 hours down the coast and battling with a Saturday Ikea with a hangover, I can honestly say the will to live was weak. Child killing was high on my mental checklist.
Another half an hours drive and I found mum calmly sipping a cold lemonade at the campsite. Although my foul mood had subsided, I can honestly say that I would rather have poked myself repeatedly in the eye than spend the next two hours setting up mum's caravan awning in 30 degree heat.

Much much later, normal balance was restored following my weekend standard fare of salad, chips and a lot of wine.