Well, I am back from Cornwall looking like someone strapped a bikini to a chewit and left it to par boil. All of a sudden I am incredibly grateful that I have a severe lack of employment this week and that I only need to show my beetrooty face at gigs because I am going to be mocked. Mocked badly. I'm already nervous about Quiz In My Pants tomorrow as I get mocked a lot on that anyway let alone when I am spangly like now.
So, how was it you say? Camping? It was great - except for the rooks. Rooks? Yes rooks.
Every year we go to this tiny place in Cornwall to surf, we choose the same spot every year at the back of the site near the loos. Every year we get woken up at 5am because there are a million rooks who roost in the tree above and who get up and start going "BART BART" and pooping everywhere. I hate rooks. I would like to shoot every single rook I can find and burn them and then feed them to rook lovers.
I've got to say the nights weren't my favourite part of this weekend; I lost a fight with my brother (Uncle Onion) pretty early on and so I had to have the crappy air bed. The fight basically consisted of me lying on the good airbed and him dragging me off while squeezing my ankles so hard I thought they were going to break. He has incredibly strong thumbs.
So I had the pants airbed which was about 4 inches wide. While I may be 4 inches long, I am at least 9 inches wide and much, much more where my hips are concerned. I spent both the nights we were there rolling off and then back on to an ever decreasing air bed and waiting for the rooks to kick in. On the second night my older sister gave me ear plugs but by the time I woke up I had lost them. It turns out I had taken them out and put them in my pocket while I was asleep - how stupid can you get? Surely even sleepy me should have been dimly aware that without them we were going back to rookville??
I also managed to pick up a fantastic new nickname on this mini-break. I say fantastic with the sort of leaden heart that is certain this nickname will stick. All of my awful nicknames stick. My delightful siblings decided that my new nickname is Poison Dwarf. Or PD for short. They find it too funny to let it drop. My height has been a bit of an issue all weekend. I went to get my wetsuit hire this morning and had this exchange with the incredibly tanned and muscly instructor.
"What dress size are you there little miss?"
"Er, I'm a size #. But I'm pretty short. I won't be offended if you have to give me a child's one."
"Nah, right let's see. How about... no. Let's try... no. Or... no. Well, it's a good job you won't be offended..."
To combat people noticing my height so much I've spent most of my time with my nephew who is frankly getting more and more brilliant. He now refers to himself as Bobber and has picked up some adorabe tricks at his 23 months point. He will now greet you with a beautiful smile and say "Hello treacle" when he sees you, and if this wasn't brillant enough, he'll follow it up with "Tally Ho" if you don't immediately go for a walk with him.
He likes walking and he really likes ducks. He also likes stones. He cried a lot when I was unable to help him get a stone out of the road because it was the road. He juts didn't understand. His nickname for me is Aunty Beastie. Because I, apparently, am a beastie.
I don't think I'm quite ready to go and sit at my email inbox and plough through everything I haven't done... there's one more day til QimP, 7 more days til the festival of previews and only 5 more weeks til Edinburgh... but I'm sure it'll be OK to have just a few more hours of holiday. Let's go PD.