...And then there was a bizarre weekend.

Contrary to the belief of one ...fruit loop (let's at least be kind about the man who is now missing) I think I'm still walking the earth. I'm pretty sure nothing has changed and that I am neither in heaven or hell, but carrying on with my daily routine - currently sat on another train bound for london waterloo full of commuters, suited and booted. It does appear women are in the minority. Unless of course there is now a specially allocated carriage for those with a different chromosome pairing. After the weekend of bizarreness I should not be surprised. I made the routine journey to Frank's this weekend, detouring via the town of Kings, obviously more commonly known as Kingston to collect a Miss BBL and her charming chap, the guitarist for the band previously named "hang on, look john". I will not leak their new identity unlike the Scottish Herald, in the newest twist in the tale of the philandering footballer. I do find it slightly odd that having a few more pennies that standard Joe buys you anonymity for being a cheat...at least until Twitterers outed this bloke! So Miss BBL, Mr Guitar and myself boarded Brian for the last 2hour leg of the trip. Minutes after leaving the built up suburbs of Kingston, we drove past a sheep field. The contents of which, as the name alludes, was sheep. And plenty of them. But all standing and facing the same way. Their subject of curiosity was a solitary Llama. This anomaly was stood, quite regally in the centre of the field, with a small group of sheepish followers all keen to gawp at the overgrown goat. I will now admit, to you my readers, that the first time I passed Llamas in a field, I was not much younger than I am now and asked Papa Dodd 'why do those goats have such long necks?' This of course, was not my finest hour. After the llama/sheep surprise the drive was quite uneventful. Arrived with Frank and dutifully wandered to the pub. It was here that I, even though in hindsight I'm sure I knew it already, consumed wine, gin and tonic, and a shot of a sambuca. These do not mix well when the only item of food eaten since lunch was an oreo mcflurry. A choice of 'dessert' I shall never make again, solely for the fact they (the wonderful staff of the golden arches restaurant chain) never provided enough biscuit-y goodness for the quantity of ice-cream. Saturday passed without event, aside from a country drive to a riverside pub and the crass-rewriting of a popular song from yester-year. The single of which, Frank confessed to owning. For the sake of his reputation I will not divulge the details to my hoards of online readers/followers. (By the way, thank you so much for joining me and my regular warblings!) Mr Furry joined us later the same afternoon for some deckchair delight, and duck feeding by the local lake. Frank"s newly purchased garden furniture would not have been out of place on Brighton beach, but the traditonal green and white stripes and folding mechanics of these wooden seats looked quite ridiculous round a lake with a the ducks. However they were so comfortable that any sarcastic comments and laughter were quickley withdrawn. The sunshine did of course scorch my milk-bottle glow. Note to self: always wear spf30... Or a bin liner! It all seemed to be too much of a good day for the world to end, what with the merriment, free flowing fosters and a large quantity of cocktail sausages and other picnic-y snack foods. Over a dinner table filled with a hearty lasagne (created by yours truely) we played games. No there was no power cut, removing access to telvision and music. No we had not run out of conversation and yes, there was more alcohol. The ability of Mr Guitar and Mr Furry to correctly predict answers to trivia cards was impressive. Some might say a superpower. Others might suggest it marked the end of the world. To Frank and I, it was bizarre. Later we found it was better known as 'cheating'. A wonderful game of 'codswallop' ensued, with an assortment of weird and wonderful words from the English language. My favourite? Gallymoofray - a dish created with leftovers. Sounds more upper class than bubble and squeak! Frank ran 10 miles on sunday. For fun. No sponsorship involved, just fame and recognition. He completed in an hour and 20 minutes. Frank if this is incorrect I apologise for my lie. The strangest thing about this escapade, was that he neither looked or smelt like he had run a hefty 10 miles across country. If that'd had been me... Well it wouldn't have been, but if my some miracle it had been, I would have been unable to move/speak/think and probably breathe. Congratulations Frank and mini-Frank for your impressive athletic abilities. And thank you to the fruit loop who predicted the end of the world, but actually created a delightful weekend for me. I will credit him for this rather than the killing of millions, just so he can feel a sense of achievement- even if his prediction was totally bizarre!