mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,

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Robin Hood, Robin Hood, riding through the glen

Robin Hood, Robin Hood, with his band of men. Robs from the poor, gives to the rich, stupid bitch...
(or New Labor, take yer pick - snerk).

So, you'll never guess where I spent the day. Go on, guess. Heh. Nottingham, or Snotingham, to give it its orginal moniker. Snigger. Snort.

Today my Aunt and mon Oncle were back to their busy lives, bridge club this, rotary hat, so I did my usual hop a bus to Notts for the day thang. I think I did the Oz torist business a disservice though, as ladies at the bus stop wanted to know if there really were big spiders in Oz. Huge ones, I answered, so huge they won't go up a vacuum hose. Which is true, but they're all going to NZ now, in any case. Heh. Nice folk in Notts, though. They all saw me on and off the bus right and I was bemused by one chap who snorted at the pretty snow flakes that he preferred his snow on Xmas cards.

So I did the "castle", really just a big old Vic pile built where Ollie tore down the old castle, damn the man, he's vanadlised every castle I've bee to so far. But they had the town history, a gallery (there's going to be a big Pre Raph show in the spring, wail, but they had one Rosetti up), and a few other bits and bobs. When I came out it was snowing so gently I thought at first it was ash, but no, it was snow. Then I walked down to visit my favourite dopey lion. Wail! Weep! Someone had knocked off his head and h had a new head but it just wasnae the same. Cry! I wuvved that silly scaredy lion. Weep! Wail!

So I walked round to The Trip to Jerusalem (1189) and found it full of beastly Americans who just walked in all noisey and took over one entire room without so much as an excuse me. How bloody typical. Stalked out in a magenta haze of hatred wishing deeply that they'd all just bugger off to Maccas. So I did the Brewhouse museum which is cute but basically our ye olde kitchen under glass with knicks and knacks but fun. They had an air raid shelter which played the sound of sirens, planes and bombs (circa 1941) very convincingly. It was very, very affecting and it made me loathe the Yanks even more.

So I marched back into The Trip, ordered my hot chocolate and found a seat with some locals, who scooched over for me. Happiness. Warm, coziness. I'm glad I did that because I love The Trip. Lots. And you'd be hard pressed to find a ye olde-er pub. Not impossible, but hard pressed.

Then I walked back to the lace place where I was instructed in the fine art of lace making. As I fail at knitting and crochet, it's not for me, but I saw how it was done and picked up a few v.expensive doilies for Aged Parent.

Then I did the Nottingham caves, which lurk at the bottom of a shopping mall, of all places. There were the usual silly folk giving entertaining and educational performances, even if on chap seemed more than a bit chemically enhanced. All part of the fun. Very tacky but vastly amusing and they were actual caves and air raid shelters, tanni8ng shops and what not.

Finally, shopping. Wish Id bought that McMurtry brick in Borders because WHSmith didn't have it here, they hardly had anything. Staggered up the steps of HMV and restrained myself bar a set of UXB, because I'd done nothing but bombs and sheters all afternoon, it was very much on my mind. BTW, the Regimental museum in the "castle" was very good with uniforms, war booty and weapons, and I hope those grenades were safe. Yikes.

Now I'm just house sitting. Did I mention that my Uncle now looks almost exactly like my Dad? It's very bittersweet. He sneezed loudly before and it was the same sneeze, which made me laugh. It's the small things.

What else? Still somewhat bemused by the British habit of carpeting their bathrooms. I can just imagine how swampy it'd be if I carpeted the one back home. That's where my 'ew' is coming from, I think. I suppose bare tiles would be brutal. Stepping out into the cold air after I've gotten it nice and steamy is brutal.

My rellies are still trying to kill me. Last time it was roast beef. This time it's cheese. Every dinner concludes with cheese. Yesterday they had something called Stinking Bishop and, not to be a wee girlie, I had the tiniest scraping on a piece of oatcake, and it utterly destroyed me. Rarely have I been that sweating, quaking, crawling on all fours to the loo wracked in agony ruined outside the monthly performance. TMI, I know, but I'm sure if you force fed me a tablespoon I'd explode. Evil, evil stuff. I'm still suffering. I've found my kryptonite. OMG, it's ruined me.

I still want to get a pair of those really gay British sneakers before I go gallery hopping in London. I just can't do it in Docs. I love my Docs for tromping through snow, sleet and slush, my they're so hard in galleries I get ill, so I really need to find some really, really gay sneakers. Heh. Could find none in Notts. To tough for girlie London sneakers, I guess.

Well, better go and play another game of suitcase Tetris. Oh joy. Oh fun. Not.

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