There was a lurking devil in his deep blue eye

If I was the sort of person who took advantage of their spare time wisely, utilising every microbe as if it were the very last drop of their own precious life, uncontrollably and invisibly dripping away, never to be retrieved, regained or properly appreciated, I probably would have taken some time in the last twenty-seven days to have discussed, at varying degrees of length, embellishment, emotional intensity, sarcasm, cryptic intonation, with a southern Irish slant, whilst sat on the toilet, confidentially, with mine own unfathomable propensity that:

1. I was thinking at one point of actually calling the blog either Feargal, You Prick!, or This Palpably Gay Internet, or even What's Not To Love?

2. I'm left feeling somewhat sad that the passing of a family member seems to take up less space in one of these here posts than Flossy did (and she was just an old cat). Suffice to say, Rodney was a popular and loved man, and people from all over the globe came to pay their respects, including his son and daughter (who were in Burkina Faso, Africa and New York respectively), several European countries and Japan; yes, Sonoko came all the way from Kyoto to say goodbye to the man.

She stayed with us for the time she was here, so it was great that we got to see each other again even if the circumstances were so sad.

3. I got pig flu for a bit (as in forty-eight hours to be exact) and it went like this:

sore throat...

bad night's sleep full of trepidation regarding the impending illness (and continuing sore throat)...

day of wanting to die due to feeling like limbs were full of mashed-up cake, near throw-up-in-my-own-car experience on the way to the shops, back to bed until 8pm...

drag myself into the spare room to hopefully have a sound night's sleep (sore throat persists, the bastard)...

following day slightly better, enhanced by notion of buying a new double bed (sore throat makes way for annoying cold)...

first night in new bed spoilt by cold and slowly dwindling illness affecting my dreams, making me first believe that a friend and I are solely responsible for the traffic flow up and down the Longmynd, even though the traffic consists of mental pensioners driving 4x4s at 80mph, which are the size of shoe boxes, then making me believe that I was in a haunted house...

4. I saw
twice, because it was very good. Here's the times to watch it in Falkirk this week.

5. Ayumi and I went to the Lake District, and camped for three nights at Great Langdale. Below are some pictures of the event.

Special mention must go the woman in the local shop/cafe in Chapel Stile (where I stopped and asked for directions) for bringing me down a peg or two by countering my point about not finding our way to the camp site because the roads tend to "Meander a bit" by unstintingly pointing out that "You're in the countryside now, not in the town anymore" (ie, piss off back to your murder and All Bran and rape).

And rightly so, as I was wearing sunglasses indoors (although in my defence they were prescription).

These pictures were taken around Blea Tarn, which was a good couple of hours trekking or more from the campsite and back down again. Ayumi took the pictures with me in, I took the ones with her in. She took the one with sheep.

Ayumi also showed me how to make a proper campfire from scratch. The townie I am, the expert on impromptu barbecues I am not.

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