It was our first wedding anniversary on Saturday, so I took The Hubster away for the weekend. He got himself into a grump because I wouldn’t tell him where we were going. Well, it was supposed to be a surprise! I packed him some clothes and stuff surreptitiously, and loaded up the car when he went for an afternoon nap on the Friday. He’d taken that day off work - when I asked him to do that, I couldn’t tell him why, or it’d ruin the surprise. He grumped about that, too. Anyway, when I was ready to go, I woke him up, and told him to get up, or we’d be late. That was true - I’d wanted to leave much earlier than half past three, which it was by the time we did leave. We had to get there between 5 and 6 p.m., so we should have been ok, but then the traffic intervened, as it so often does. A three-lorry pile-up on the M40 meant that motorway was closed for ages, then another accident as it was opened didn’t help matters. We were on the A46 approaching the roundabout with the M40, so we got help up no end. I knew we wouldn’t make it in time, so I had to spill the beans and get Colin to phone up the wifey. I’d booked us in for B&B accommodation in a farm in the middle of nowhere in the Cotswolds. I know for next time not to book somewhere in the middle of nowhere because it means you have to drive everywhere, so you can’t drink. Most annoying. Still, it didn’t stop us going to the pub—well, we needed feeding! We went to one pub just because we both needed the loo. I forget its name, but I think it was in Broadway. I noticed some pictures on the wall, and had a good look at them. This was one of them:

Make of it what you will!

Well, I’ve started it (ok, so it’s a day late, but who’s counting? What do you mean, that’s the point? Shh!). I’ve written 149 words so far. I suppose I could try harder, but there’s only so many hours in the day, and I like to sleep through as many of the ones in the morning as possible (after la madrugada, of course).

Someone’s done a picture of Pandammonium!

They’ve got the panda and they’ve got a bottle of ammonium (not sure what kind of ammonium, but it’s green and noxious-looking) and they’ve got the pandemonium.

Shouldn’t it be mine?

I like this picture.  I like the humour in it, when you scroll down.

Imagine having this painted above your bed.

[via reddit]

I have a couple of books translated into Spanish from English, but what I really want is a book that was written in Spanish in the first place. I looked in a big bookshop in town yesterday, but they all seemed to be most depressing, all about war and misery. It’s all very well reading stuff in a foreign language to practice my reading skills, but if I’m not interested in the subject matter, there’s really no point. I ended up with a copy of Charlie y la fábrica de chocolate that C found. I’ll read that when I finish El curioso incidente del perro a medianoche, then maybe I’ll make a start on El hombre del traje de color castaño - that’s going to be much more complicated. I’m daunted.

I could really do with the Spanish versions of the likes of Mark Billingham, Michael Connelly, Ian Rankin, Lee Child, Michael Crichton and so on, dagnammit! Anyone know of such Spanish authors?

Whilst tidying up yesterday, I was sorting through old bills and stuff, when I came across my Poem. I wrote this one dinnertime when I was in the sixth form at school. It was in a room at the top of Somerleyton. There was a typewriter in there and a pile of letters to parents about the school building society branch. I used these to type out my poem, and I’ve scanned it in; you can see the letter through the page.

You don’t need me to tell you it was inspired by Wordsworth.