Well, the long weekend is all but over and, from my ailing body's point of view, perhaps it's just as well.
As ever when John is in town, the drink flowed as freely as the personal insults and, as I crawled up to bed shortly before 4.30 this morning, I made myself a promise not to touch another drop of alcohol...at least until the pub lunch eight hours later.
I managed it too - an act of considerable self-restraint, I'm sure you'll agree.
To be fair, we weren't wasters for the entire three days.
In amongst the revelry and with the help of Vanessa and John's new woman Kate, yesterday we did manage to successfully collect and transport home a new cot, wardrode, chest of drawers and bedsite table for baby-to-be; the photo shows John and I being both manly and efficient in hauling the wardrobe down the baby shop fire escape. Without dropping it. Completely.
Needless to say the air was turned as blue as my tee shirt more than once, but that is only to be expected.
Anyway, it's done. And I'm done in. Now then, I wonder if there's room for me in that cot...
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