I just ate the hands down most delicious yoghurt I've ever eaten. I'm not sure whether is sadder that,
a) I feel the need to tell you this
b) You're reading this
c) I am so familiar with the brilliance of my past yoghurts that I know this.
I feel that none of us really care - the fact that we've all come together in this pink, rambly corner of the world means that we're bored companions in a Friday afternoon. Nearly there though gang! Nearly at that elusive beast we call a weekend.
I actually have no real plans this weekend... only make believe ones! I will be massaging fairy hippos and doing the can can with a pygmy shrew whilst painting the nails of a nympth and licking the SouthWest corner of a rainbow.
The reason I have no plans (neither real nor make-believe) is that I've been snubbed by my parents. Which is an awful feeling no one should ever have to deal with.
They are travelling to Twickenham on Sunday to watch the Scotland vs England game. This is always interesting because my father is a Scot, raised in South Africa and living in England which makes him 50% sure of a victory suring the 6 nations. Lucky bugger. I'm fairly sure his allegiance will lie with the Celts on Sunday... could be an interesting car journey home for my wedded folks.
Given that they'll be in London this weekend, and that I sorted them out the tickets, I thought it fairly straightforward that we'd be hanging out... but, erm, they said no. Well, actually they didn't say no. They said, "Er, well... we'll see shall we?" Then there was a week of nailbiting silence, and then they said they'd made other plans.
Other plans??? With other equally brilliant daughters who broke their hearts when they flew the nest??? Other comedian daughters who dote...well, not exactly dote but text occasionally... other plans?
Where do you turn to when you've become so frightfully uncool that even your own parents don't really want to spend the weekend with you if they can help it? It's a tragedy the like of which the Greeks would have been proud. It would have been called The Lexxalot Complex and would mean that you were such a pesky child that, not only do your parents not mind that you've moved 4 hours away, they don't even want to see you once they've driven the 4 hours for an event you organised. Certainly no incestuous feelings and potential murderings brewing in my pod.
Unfortunately, their snubbing of the runt of their litter means my competitive streak has awoken and I now feel the need to plan the busiest, best weekend that was ever seen. Something that the Coen brothers might direct and would star a Wilson brother...
I'll let you know how it's going.
Which means my weekend will likely consist of me in jogging bottoms blogging to you.
Parents - 1 ___ Laura - 0