She looks like a sugar in a plum...

....plum plum. It was that sort of weekend.

After a Friday night out with Crash and Donna which left us richer to the tune of a tin of evaporated milk, a story guaranteed to put me off chocolate spread for life and the knowledge that we danced very badly indeed in a brightly-lit and almost empty pub, we headed off to deepest Wiltshire bright and early and a bit hungover on Saturday morning. Arriving before anyone else, including my father and stepmum, we set the tone for the remainder of the day by heading to the pub for a relaxing pint before the hoards descended. The pub was hosting a wedding that was in gloriously bad taste (the bridesmaid's dress had a great big bow on the back and the toothless balding man in the cheap suit turned out not to be the requisite innapropriate uncle but the groom, a fact that he amply demonstrated by holding the bride's bottom very firmly while shoving his tongue down her throat) that I could have watched all day. Our presence was required however, so we wandered back and were greeted by Australian Sis and Controlling Husband. Now, CH seems on the surface to be a very nice man indeed, although there was a little too much old-school servile behaviour on display from AS for my liking. I'll reserve judgement though as it was hard to get much of a handle in what he's really like. He's Australian by way of Kosovo and as such his English, particularly when trying to translate drunken banter between people who've known each other for thirty-odd years, is still a work in progress. This led to him being really rather quiet and sloping off to bed early, so we'll see.

As for the rest of the visit; well, it had everything you could wish for. We drank for twelve hours solid and my father fell asleep before he could even eat his dinner. This may have been related to his student-like enthusiasm for drinking everything he could lay his hands on, including some Kosovan brandy that he was swigging from the bottle like a chav with an alcopop. At one point the table next to his recliner had a glass of whisky, a glass of red wine and a glass of cava lined up so it's probably no wonder that shortly before dinner we were drawing straws to see who got to wake him up. After dinner all thoughts of the traditional whining through the washing up were put aside as the Boney M vinyl was cranked up and Woodlands was witness to the triumphant return of the Impromptu Hallway Disco, which ran until the record player broke and no amount of shining a torch on it while sort of poking it a bit would cajole it back into life. Fifi Sis' Other Half regrettably failed to wire up the karaoke mikes he'd helpfully brought with him so we satisfied ourselves with wailing along to some dreadfully bad covers CDs that he'd purchased from a petrol station (under the impression that they were just a bargain at six quid for twelve CDs) and lurching around a bit. When the party broke up slightly we retired to the living room to talk loudly over the sound of my father's laboured drunken snoring as he'd once more collapsed open-mouthed into his chair. I suspect that it would have been a much later night but the Other Half (mine) expressed his desire to go to bed (we were on a blow-up bed in the living room) by simply lying on the floor until the penny dropped. On the subject of the Other Half, he was the victim of a particularly nasty case of middle-of-the-night confusion of the sort that renders it impossible for you to find your way out of a dark room as someone has turned it inside-out while you were sleeping. Desperate for a wee, he did two laps of the living room barking his shins and becoming increasingly panicky before finally locating the light switch and making good his escape. The light going on didn't wake me up though, as I had wisely legislated for it by drinking far too much wine. Regrettably this rendered me bratty and irritating before knocking me out, for which I can only apologise to the long-suffering Other Half.

After a random early morning conversation in which the Other Half and I decided that we were going to give it all up and run a pub instead, we found ourselves on an outing to the local park to amuse Fifi's eldest Minx. I was missing Small Person horribly by this point and was more than ready to go home. However, the park was so random that I'm rather glad I stuck around. Eldest Minx had already told me the way to the park - you go back past the other way and then along, apparently. She only fell over three times on the way, so that was alright then, and the park was something of a curiosity. There were the usual swings and play equipment, but at the opposite end there was a plantation-style house which appeared to host the park in its front garden. There was also a folly and a burial ground, so all in all more sinister than friendly, in my opinion. Fifi and her Other Half decided to get some Sunday papers so we accompanied them to the shop. The walk there was akin to a walk round Royston Vasey and things didn't get any less weird when we arrived at our destination. The Other Half was keen to purchase a revolting squeezy skull with bugs in it that had been making him and Fifi's Other Half (for crying out loud somebody suggest a shorter name for him!!) giggle like six-year-olds since the previous afternoon (FOH had bought two for his nephew and they made me feel proper sick) and of course the papers had to be bought. Hindering this transaction was the presence in the shop doorway of a very odd dog indeed. It appeared to be a cross between a Springer Spaniel and a walrus (waniel? spalrus?) having very short legs and big flippery feet and it stared relentlessly at Fifi which unnerved her no end. I could have stayed there all day reading the notice board (home hairdressing from five pounds [no perms]) and watching old men buying Deep Heat but I had to get home and it's a three hour drive so we reluctantly headed back. On the walk back to the park FOH told a fabulous story detailing the time during his school nativity play when Sister Hildegarde, on becoming concerned at him missing his cue (he was Joseph, complete with dressing gown and talcum powder in his hair), ventured backstage and found him in an ante-room off the wings teaching the shepherds how to masturbate. Marvellous.

And there was pineapple fridge cake and me and Small Person ate it all when we got home. Sorry. Oh, and there were lots of pre-teen hookers in the park and their friend looked like Fred West in a wig. And Unsuitable Terry was very funny indeed, in an unexpectedly good way.

I'm tired and therefore this post has been long and rubbish. That'll teach you.