The Sun Has Got His Hat On

Good weather. Proper dead good weather. Like 'not only are the windows are open but I've taken me thermal vest off I've dug out a pair of flip flops and I'm sleeping in the nud' sort of weather. In the UK, this is, understandably, cause for great excitement. Cue much comparing of our temperatures to those in Spain, gratuitous tabloid photos of nineteen year old girls frolicking on Brighton beach and hosepipe bans being dished out left, right and centre.

Betty, with a coat hanger in her mouth.

It is also time to DO STUFF. It is time to do the stuff that you get to do on, at best, four occasions per year. As these occasions are pleasant fun filled affairs, you can guarantee that God will ensure they fall on work days or days when you have agreed to help someone move a wardrobe. The times they fall on days when you can actually make use of them are RARE.

So we decided to make the sun count and rammed stuff we normally fit into a couple of years of good weather into one compulsory day of fun. And woe betide anyone not smiling for THE ENTIRETY of the proceedings. 

Betty waving at the Tower.

Firstly we went to Blackpool. It must be ten years since I visited Blackpool in the day. Sure, we turn out for the same trumped up collection of dog-eared light bulbs scattered about the Golden Mile every sodding year, but it's a long time since I've been there in daylight when the wind/a tramp wasn't trying to steal my chips. Turns out there's a reason the main attraction operates at night. But if you can see passed the 'Girlz On Tour', the derelict shops and the vomit strewn gutters (you will need to look really hard), you will be rewarded with a day of family fun riding restored old time trams and walking the newly refurbished pier eating a 99 with a Flake in the sun. Maybe it was just heat stroke, but the place didn't seem quite so deviant and morally void in the light of the hopeful May sunshine. Even the brothels had opened their windows to let a bit of fresh air in.

Dave and Boo, averting their eyes.

Sod's law, the only time I've been to Blackpool when paddling in the sea's raw sewage and having a mill up and down the sands on an ageing flea bitten donkey was most definitely an option, and the bloody tide was right the way in. For the whole time we were there. So no sandcastles for The Poop. Just the eye watering vision of roll upon roll of pasty working class thigh, bosom, belly and bum crack exposed on the Jeremy-Kyle-A-Thon that was the promenade. In the spirit of the day, I made a valiant effort to keep an inane grin slapped about my non-plussed grid.
N.B. Please do not wear cheap white leggings if you intend to wear beneath them a black thong, and are, to boot, morbidly obese. I find myself drawn into speculating as to where and how the thong has wrapped itself around your gusset, and I really, really don't want to be part of any of this.

Ever heard a sand fart? *guffs* You have now.

So, with Boo beachless, we headed home, where out came the sandpit and paddling pool. Seeing a small naked person dig and splash about in our own back garden reminded me of all the times twelve months ago when I dreamed of one day seeing 'the baby' trot about our lawn like it was all normal and usual.
And now there she was. Except not being normal and usual.
She was being loud and messy and chubby and giggly and interested and cute and trumpy and Betty.

And the sun was out. And I didn't care about the messy.

Nothing normal about that. Enjoy it love.
Neither'll last.