TPR and I lived in a lovely stone house in Northumberland. It had six bedrooms (two downstairs) and four bathrooms.
On the day that I realised that I had forgotten to reserve a table for dinner I volunteered to walk all the way to Pitlochry to do so. I took a very dangerous short cut when I flagged down a vehicle in the hope that I would be offered a lift. The occupants of the black Mercedes were East European gangsters. They slowed down and I happily hopped into their car. Immediately I realised my mistake. What if they never released me?
They did, in fact, let me go, although they made me jump from the car while it was still moving. Now in Pitlochry I marvelled at the fashion sense of its elderly inhabitants. One in particular drew my attention: a white-haired old lady in a white hotpants and high heels combination that really was not appropriate on anyone other than a skinny teenage girl.
I also bumped into JS on the street, even though she had done her best to disguise herself under a heavy coat, woolly hat, and sunglasses. She told me that she would pop over later to deliver my birthday card.
Dreamaticus 