Tour de Reino Unido – part viente dos

Dear reader,

I feel flattened today. A day to forget. I somehow lost my house key, work key and work ID. In the morning a security guard at the government offices deliberately confused me by leaving me waiting outside the wrong office. And I have a nasty sore throat. When I get a sore throat, it hangs around for months.

They are not huge problems. Just little annoying bastard ones where you kick yourself and say, “Why the f–k don’t I take better care of my things?” Poor Pamela is shaking her head and thinking, “What the f–k am I marrying into?” Sometimes my hypothyroid makes me dopey. Other times I’m just too chilled (or stressed), but I’m self-pitying, which doesn’t help us learn anything. If anyone can give me tips, please do. I had a jab today, but I should make no excuses. Poor concentration.

Wednesday 22nd July 2014 continued

In the evening, we met up with my old friend Mary Sheard for a typical Birmingham dish named a Balti. For those not in the know, it comes from the immigrants from India, Pakistan, Bangladesh (please let me know if I have left any countries out). And yes Fox News, some of them were Muslim, as well as non-Muslim (their terrorism expert is never going to live this down on this side of the pond) and is a fusioned curry dish with British-Asian ingredients and spices, eaten from a “bucket” (which is the translation from Urdu and Hindi) or rather a wok-styled bowl with a great bit spanking naan that if hit with, it would send your head into orbit. There are a great variety of mild to hot dishes. I always like a spicy coconut one although I can’t remember the name. You can then choose the main ingredient from a selection of Halal blessed meats or seafood.

Some argue that the fusion started in Birmingham. The city’s blessed with so many Balti restaurants (some better than others ) which might make you believe it, although whether that is a hard fact is hard to say. It’s most likely from Baltistan, an area of Pakistan. It used to be that they were the cheapest food out there, along with kebabs, taking over from fish and chips as an Briton’s poor man’s nourishment (and drunk man’s nourishment, although the farts the next day are like Pomeii part deux, as Pamela was going to find out).

We went to Al Frash on Stoney Lane, a long road known for its Asian cuisine and convenience stores (Asian in the UK refers to India, Pakistan and Bangladesh. Chinese and Japanese and Thai is Far Eastern. Why it is that way, I don’t know. It’s like asking why we drive on the other side of the road). Throughout the year the road lit up at night. In summer, it reminds me of holidays in Turkey, with the Middle Eastern flags, shops with Urdu or Arabic writing, the different aromas floating around. Pamela noted that too, especially as it was warm and the sun was setting. Think 8th Street in Miami in the Latin quarter. Think Brixton in London for the West Indian community. Think Little Italy in New York. Pamela was especially intrigued by the veils worn by women passing by. She has ancestral blood hailing from Iran.

Mary was already there, champs in hand as a congratulations gift. I was made to get her ciders. Mary is a close friend. She is quite a bit older than me. We met at a creative writing evening class at Swanshurst School on the edge of Kings Heath. I had been going through depression, starting over going back to college, etc. I was 21, I think, in 2001. Mary kept me under her wing for a long time. Even though when I said I was fine, she kept pushing me back under. Very protective in a maternal way. She’s stuck by me through hard times. Given me a dressing down, or a dust down, when it’s been necessary. She played a big part in me organising a poetry night to raise me money to come to Honduras, getting many of the raffle prizes and poets together, as well as selling tickets aplenty. She’s baked me many cakes for birthdays and bought me many pints. Sometimes I don’t think I’ve done the same for her and I feel guilty about that. I’ve always tried to encourage her to step out the box, like getting a mobile phone (she got one 10 years after everyone else. I kind of respect her for it. She says I bullied her into it. She needed some robust pushing, certainly), go on holiday more often, write a book or meet someone new (she ignores me on this last point. She enjoys reminding me that men are, quite frequently, useless, especially to her). We used to go to the MAC (Midlands Art Centre) a lot. One of the first movies we ever saw there together was called Journey to the Centre of the Earth (I think) and the synopsis stated there was a stripper in it. We weren’t quite prepared for the first scene where the stripper put a Chupa-Chup in her vagina and then licked it. The elderly couple next to us walked straight out. There was also a man greviously masturbating later in the film. We still laugh about it, but it was graphic for even us, and we both possess liberal minds, to an extent. We have a lot in common, especially in the arts. Only football we disagree on. She thinks it’s shit. I obviously don’t. But she loved visiting St Andrews once upon a time.

She has a sharp tongue on her and she laughs at people quite loudly, which I sometimes have taken issue with. It’s a survival technique she’s developed through life. She has a disability and she claims and I no doubt believe her that she has been discriminated and bullied against at various points in her life. She’s not one to sit down and take it. This part of her personality has hardened through working in probation with tough ex-convicts, who I am not surprised try to give her a hard time. Her bossy personality puts them in line. Not only that, I’m positive it terrifies them. Most the cases she has ends in success. I wonder if she considers me a case? If so, I hope a successful one.

You get the poppodoms first with a nice yogurt, then you get starter (a samosa, a bit like a fried empanada but more spicy), then the balti. Pamela has since been looking for curry dishes in Honduras. The only ones we’ve found a Thai, which are great. But wants a naan though. Not as easy to find. Especially in a Honduran Thai resturant. Drink flowed, as did the questions. Maternal instincts made sure that Mary made the questions hard, but I think Mary was taken aback by Pamela’s quiet feisty Latin spirited responses, which can be as direct and engaging as an English parole officer.

Mary has since told me that I have picked well, with the wife choice, and that I will get cauliflower ears from her if I mistreat Pamela. No such threat was made in Pamela’s direction, by the way. Another sisterhood had been formed. Shit.

We took Mary home, and Pamela trooped all the way through the night. The power of the balti. The power of Mary Sheard.

Paris

Dear readers,

It’s been a tragic week in Paris. The attacks, as graphic as they are, shocked adults all over the world, but I wonder what affect it has had on younger generations? I don’t know if that’s what the media is saying or what, but the attacks seem to be becoming more frequent. There has certainly been a lot of right-wing noise in the media, especially from one Australian tycoon, not the most popular person on earth, who made unsavory comments about all Muslims having to take responsibility for what happened. There was also quotes from the US satirist, Bill Maher, who calls himself liberal, saying similar things, about Muslims thinking alike. For someone who thinks himself as intelligent, I expected a little more from him. A Fox News “Terrorist Expert” has been trying to spin the story about there being too many Muslims im Europe, saying that my home city Birmingham cannot be entered by non-Muslims, which is hilarious (and Jasper Carrott is an Imam!). The reporter has since retracted his statements, saying they are erroneous (like most Fox News reports), and is donating money to Birmingham Children’s Hospital as an apology. The latest consensus in Birmingham reported that there were 1.1 million people living in Brum, of which 800,000 were non-Muslims.

The Muslim population is about a billion, I read somewhere. Don’t know if that’s true. I worked at the Refugee Council in Birmingham which had a large percentage of Muslim workers, many of whom are still good mates. I cannot see them for the life of me justifying the attacks in anyway. I think it showed in the marches in Paris over the weekend the anger that many Muslims feel about what’s happened. All Muslims should not be held responsible. Those who preach violence or racism should be, just as any terrorist or fanatic of any faith or race should be. It’s so sad to see the state of chaos it has caused.

This evening, on Facebook, I have seen a group passing around called “Yo No Soy Charlie”, which is a kind of counter group to “Je suis Charlie”, in the aftermath of the attacks; a way of remembering those who died and to stand up to terror. This Yo No Soy Charlie is in no way justifying the deaths, but it is organised by people who have seen various cartoons by Charlie Hebdo, and questions their taste and whether it really is humour. I have found some of drawings quite provocative and eyebrow raising, and I am all for freedom of expression and thought provoking art. Is this really thought provoking, or just offensive?

Standing up to radicals and politicians is fine by me;  especially satirically. The closest we may have in the UK to Charlie, I guess, is Viz, but that’s more smutty humour than satirics. The above picture is obviously caused to ruffle feathers of the Catholic church, maybe to provoke equal rights to gays or have a cheeky laugh, but you can see how the above picture would upset radical christians, just like something similar with Allah or Mohammed might upset radicals in Islam, which has left many people, especially in Honduras, thinking something like this was bound to happen. I guess the world awaits to see how Charlie Hebdo responds, and you only wish the families of the deceased that they rest in peace.

After these tragic events and every other terrorist attack or Holy War in God’s name, I wonder if God looks down, head in his hand, and thinks, “How on earth did my words get so damn twisted?!”

Tour de Reino Unido – part veinte uno

Dear readers,

Wednesday 22nd July 2014

One brilliant thing about growing up in Brum is that it is close to everywhere, some of which are lovely little havens. People from other major UK cities like to mock the city, mainly accent and criticism of the architectural butchery, which included some now listed buildings. Many of these people are jealous of the second city status. Most are jealous of its hidden gems, like the one down the road from where I grew up, which was a famous hunting ground of a young J R Tolkien!

What’s even better was growing up in Hall Green. Running through it is a main road and railway line which runs all the way to Stratford Upon Avon, the birthplace of William Shakespeare, so they say (some claim he was born in Norfolk or East Anglia. Unfortunately for that town, they lost out on annual multi-million pound tourism industry). It’s funny how people make fun of the regional accent, when some the greatest playwrights and writers grew up around. A source of great inspiration I think.

Must kids in the south Birmingham area have gone to Stratford more times than they’ve had hot dinners. Most school trips and school holidays involved a visit, maybe two or three times a year. No complaints on my part. I loved it. I’d go by myself on odd occasions. Most foreign friends I have taken there. I’ve gone on the odd beer crawl. Even though I am a writer and really enjoy Shakespeares work now, I used to much prefer the Butterfly Museum, which we would have an assortment of parakeets flying around a big leafy greenhouse, not to forget the scurrying quails on the ground.

On this occasion, I of course took Pamela by car. She loved the canals and theatres and medieval houses, as well as sweet little shops (although like most visitors, she was freaked by the Christmas shop; open 365 days a year (apart from Christmas Day; beautiful ironies are such a blessing to the heart)). She also scoffed at the price to Shakespeares’s birthplace. We did find a little place that sold fudge, and Pamela took affection to the fudge seller’s accent, which happened to be Glasweigan. Glasgow also happened to be the last leg of our UK tour (it feels a bit tongue and cheek by saying Scotland is part of the UK now). It turns out, his brother has a bakery very close to where my Uncle and Aunty live in Newlands, just at the bottom of the road in fact. Later on, Pamela heard Spanish being spoken and the Latina chip in her head went into high alert, with a need ask a thousand questions about their origin at an exhaustable pace. These poor lads hailed from Chile. Saying that, I’m kind of like that with Hondurans who have visited the UK. “WHY DIDN’T YA GO TO BRUM?”

We then sat by the canal for a while, as I was still suffering a wee bit of a  hangover. I got a bit of a sunburn, lying there, talking about childhoods and old friends. The day was turning into late afternoon and we were due to meet my old writing buddy Mary, a great mate who had a big part in me being here in Honduras, for a lovely balti; a typical dish in Brum.

That’ll be in the next update.

Elizabeth Rogers – London Winter Run

Dear readers,

This morning I stated in an earlier post that I wouldn’t be doing as many blog updates as I have many resolutions that will be taking a fair bulk of my spare time. Well, this is my third entry today so I’ve bollixed my resolutions a bit early for this year. Always next year! That was of course a joke. My second update was about the runaway tv reporter of Tegucigalpa, Paola Paz. This one isn’t quite about Honduras, as such, but it does affect billions of people around the world in a direct and indirect way. My sister, Elizabeth is going to run the London Winter Run on 1st February to raise money for Cancer Research UK. She is doing it with her Guatemalan best mate Zahra (Zahra’s family actually hail from India, but Pamela and I like to claim that she’s Chapina. A Hindu Chapina, fancy that!! I’m assuming she’s of Hindu faith in that last remark by the way. I hope I’m right!). As stated, we all know someone who has been affected or had cancer, and some unfortunately may have lost the fight. Even though Cancer Research UK is based on those lovely rainy Isles, the organisation is very much trying to cures for cancer for people all over the world. So please, if you can, donate a little something to my brilliant sister.

Zahra and Elizabeth; proud of them both

My sister’s aim is to raise £500; roughly $800. What’s staggering about this is that my sister contracted meningitis two months ago, recovered (although I think it takes longer than two months to recover from it), and then had bronchitis, which I think she is still recovering from. As you can imagine, she’s putting her body through a lot of pain to do this. Again, anything you can donate is appreciated. It was her 31st birthday on Saturday. That’s another reason to donate. Go on.

Here are a few words she has sent me:

Hello all,

Apologies for mass message to everyone! I am doing a running event on 1st feb for cancer research a charity close to my heart for many reasons! Sadly I have had family and friends affected by this and the more money we raise, the more research done and the more cure’s and life prolonging treatments that can be developed and funded.

You can help me raise money for this great cause by donating directly to my fundraising page – http://www.justgiving.com/E-ROGERS.
JustGiving sends your donation straight to Cancer Research UK and automatically reclaims Gift Aid if you are a UK taxpayer, so your donation is worth even more.

Thank you for your support and happy new year.

Lizzie xxx

—————–
Here is a link to her Justgiving site:
https://www.justgiving.com/E-ROGERS/

Thank you for your time.

Paola Paz

Dear readers,

She went missing on the Friday. It hit the news on the evening. I, like most Hondurans, heard on the Saturday. Social networks were flooded with pictures of her. The head of the Criminal Investigation Directorate, or DNIC, Leandro Osorio, sent pleas out for information, as did her stressed father, Ricardo Paz. Hondurans held their breath and thought, “Shit! Not again!” Not just Hondurans, but foreigners too. Just a month or so after the Honduran beauty queen was brutally murdered. Paola, I think we can all agree, is beautiful too. Newspapers say she is also a model.“Teenaged news reporter goes missing”. Kidnapped or murdered, the nation whispered; people always thinks the worst when a journalist goes missing. With good reason, after all, forty-eight journalists and media executives have been murdered in Honduras since November 2003, the Human Rights Commissioner’s Office claims. The newspapers were the foulest, yet again, almost baiting for the worst with obituary styled articles. People feared their country would be dragged through the mud yet again.

But then….

On Sunday, she was found alive, safe and well. In fact she was in a shopping mall. The 18 year old journalist for the Catholic TV channel, Suyapa, apparently had a fight with her father and stormed out the house. Others say she went out on the mother of all benders. Others say she was lost, which has made her the butt of many jokes.

"Help Paola arrive at the pulperia"

"I want to be famous. I leave the house without advising people"

None of the reasons in the press don’t make her look great, especially for someone who works as a journalist for a Catholic tv channel; not very Christian-like. Ironically, her surname means peace in English. I am guessing, and excuse the pun, there’s war and peace in the Paz household right now. If fame was what she was after, she’s certainly got it, but I doubt this is the type of fame she wants. She might have a logical explanation, although still, you would expect a jouno to check her Facebook or return a phone call. Maybe there is more to the argument with her father than meets the eye. Maybe not. I used to leave the house when I was young. I did a couple of times actually. When I was 10 or 11. I would leave over something stupid. It was of course deadly important at the time. I would get to end of the street. In anger, I would walk out without shoes. English winters are very cold and I don’t think I prepared for life on my own very well. I would return home with a dropped head and hear my parents pissing themselves with laughter downstairs after being sent to my room. This was down to my obvious immaturity, and the press are suggesting this with Ms. Paz too, as well as irresponsibility. Whether she has a job now, we’ll wait and see, but be rest assured that figures will probably go up if she has to report on her own disappearance; interesting tv material. She might well be a genius, after all! Not at the present time, however, and how her father deals with this will be interesting; does he ground her and lock her in a room, or fear ever to have an argument with her again. As will present or future boyfriends. I have this overwhelming feeling that Honduran parents who have children with a tendency for running away are grabbing their offspring by the collar and viciously saying, “If you ever do this to me, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Paola, I hope you’ve learned your lesson.

Resolutions

Dear readers,

First day back at work from Christmas break. No offence to colleagues, but it always comes with a bit of a heavy heart having relaxed and indulged too much. Pamela has worked straight through it. I’ve been fortunate enough to chill, which is necessary when working with kids. Parents don’t get holidays from that, but I’m not a parent (yet!), so I’ll live a bit more of this life of luxury. Santa was good to me, with a nice television, thank you to Pamela. I also received an interesting gift in the Secret Santa, courtesy of Pamela’s cousin Moisés, which was an Arsenal FC shirt; he is a big Henry fan. It adds to my great selection of football shirts that includes Moor Green, Valencia and Fluminese. It’s a cliché, but the best gift was love, as I bonded a lot more with Pamela’s family and I feel a lot more part of it.

I did work on the business (the website is pretty much ready), write lots, cooks lots, recover from hangovers, watched plenty movies and episodes of the American Shameless, the odd trip outside Tegucigalpa, set off lots of fireworks (burning Pamela’s cousin Alejandra in the process of experiments with empty beer cans and firecrackers, and a chance to plan next year, which will be a big one, so resolutions are a must, and it’s a great time to make them and create good habits and discard unhelpful ones. Mine are personal and I don’t feel the need to write them here, but they will weigh heavily on my spare time, so there will be less time to write this blog. I do go missing sometimes, so it won’t come as a big shock to some.

Here is a quick poem about resolutions, which I hope inspires you, as it does for me.

Resolutions

Stay true to your resolutions,
Don’t stray far from your goals,
When you go off track,
It’s hard to get back
On the journey of fulfilling your soul.

God is there for support,
Whether you want Him or not,
As are family and friends,
No matter how the road bends,
To push ahead with your goals.

Your objectives can be needs or wants,
Starting new or breaking bad habits,
Be aware of your greed
And then you’ll be freed
Of vices cleaning your path to success.

Give back what you take,
And thank those who help,
But don’t let your doubts break you,
Negative people too,
And be grateful for what you have along the way.

Less of this!!

Tour de Reino Unido – part viente

Dear readers,

Tuesday 21st July 2014

I really should be starting afresh with events happening at this very moment in time, as it is a big year for me, and our trip to UK is so 2014. Last year, I must say, was kind to Pamela and I, with getting engaged and residency. 2015 will include weddings and moving into a new house. Pamela says that she promises not to be Bridezilla. I had never heard of this strange noun. The etymology of this word is obviously a blend of Bride and Godzilla; not a very positive image, is it! Blends like this are what the Hondurans call “naco” – naff, or cheesy, or crap taste. I remember in the British press that the Tories were all about chillaxing, and I remember Charlie Brooks saying on Have I Got News for You that people who use blends like this to appear cool are Funts; the best blend of any I’ve heard. I don’t think that Pamela is Bridezilla or a Funt, by the way, but I have called her the former, just to wind her up. I’m not sure she understands the Funt concept just yet, but she would understand the etymology of the blend and, like the sometimes polite young lady she is, she would not be impressed. In a drunken discourse, I did teach her and my in laws the concept of “C U Next Tuesday.” I’m afraid that I have unleashed a very dangerous animal, one that my own family back home will be dropping their heads to, as well a rude V hand signal. What have I done?!

Anyway, on this day, back in July, I remember going into Birmingham City Centre, via the Jewellery Quarter, as my mother was eager to show Pamela some of the jewellery craft shops by local artists. Pamela was also after a present for her sister Dennisse. I saw the Red Lion, a pub that I organised a poetry night to raise money to come to Honduras back on a cold October night in 2010, featuring Chris Morgan, Mary Sheard, Shirley Cooper, Phillip Sawyer and myself. A nice trip down memory lane. We then passed by the pen museum, which I never knew existed. Mum bought us some traditional pens, with the old nibs. Funnily enough, Pamela met a curator in Honduras (I’m not sure which museum) and she donated the pen, to help show Honduran children and future generations how scribes were written in the past. So there, a good old Birmingham pen sits in a museum in Tegucigalpa, somewhere.

We then stopped by St Paul’s Cathedral, where I sometimes used to go during my extremely busy days at the Refugee Council. Sometimes for a bit of quiet time, sometimes to eat lunch on the lawns outside. It is one of my favourite churches for its refineness and private detail.

We left mum there and went to get presents. First stop, the Oasis market, which is kind of like a department store fpr those with alternative tastes, like rock, piercings, tattoos, s and m fetishes, Warhammer etc. For someone a bit wet behind the ears, it’s a real eye opener, especially for me when I started going in my teenage years. It’s where I once picked up bootlegged Oasis cds of very rare songs. They are treasured items of mine and in my will I demand that they are buried with me. The place also gives me memories of when I was a perverted little spotted teenager desperate to get a girlfriend. Because I was absolutely hopeless at chatting up girls, I resorted to looking at bikini clad models on giant posters. This is how I got my earliest kicks, long before the internet came along and I looked too young and was too shy to go into a shop to buy porn. Preteens and teenage years are an uncomfortable age for many. My cheeks are turning violet just thinking of it. I remember how spoilt for choice I was, gawping like an idiot at Pamela Anderson and the other fine actresses of Baywatch. I used all my pocket money to coat my walls with very nearly naked women, and when I ran out of room, they would go up on the ceiling (the one above my bed was weirdly Noel Gallagher (not in a bikini). I did it because I thought it was hippy, but of course, no one believed me), which would freak out/humour family and friends. I remember that one poster used formal vernacular to describe the wondrous curves of the female form, with this particular blond haired lady having her rump called “superior posterior”. These two words have lasted with me ever since, and no doubt, forever more. One Christmas, when my Scottish family came to stay, I took my cousin Sam (he is two years younger and yes, I should have known better) on one of these alternative tours of Birmingham (poster shops in the city centre I.e. Athena at the bottom of floor of the Pavilions was another popular haunt of mine). His face was full of cheerful perverted smiles, just like mine, although we would get disdainful looks from middle aged shoppers wanting to buy posters of cute puppies and bears for their innocent children. On on particular trip, Sam wanted a picture of Cindy Crawford. We picked out the number of the poster, bought it in the shrink wrapped polythene wrapper and went home happy, only to open it up and find out we got the numbers mixed up and it was actually a poster of The Artist Formerly Known as Prince. We chuckled hysterically, but we had neither time or the balls to describe the mix up to the shop assistant. It’s a funny perverted family memory, one that our siblings do not allow us to forget. I had to laugh to myself when I was there with Pamela, looking for a poster of One Direction for her cousin Andrea. How times have changed.

In the evening, we went to meet my best mate Stuart Harborne in a pub which is now called the Hungry Horse, but it is still known to many by its original name The Baldwin. I felt it was essential for Pamela to experience this pub. I don’t know why, mind, but it seemed like a good education about what British working class life is all about, even though I’m not working class, neither really is Stuart. Pamela was comparing everything to Honduras, so I felt I had to show her something that she wouldn’t be able to compare to Honduras, and that most definitely is the Baldwin pub. I’ve no doubt in my mind that she is the first and last Honduran to set foot in that pub. Stuart was already there when we arrived with his wife Susan and his daughter. It reminded me of a promise that we made to each other on one of our many-a-drunken evenings (long after my poster perversion era), which was that we would share a flat together and pull loads of girls. That never happened, and neither really would it have happened. We were both happy with our better halves. We used to go there after long shifts at Toys R Us. It still makes me shudder to think that I wore that stripey fucking jacket. I hated that job. It was a stop between other jobs, but I don’t think I have ever worked with a bigger amount of lunatics in my life. The sounds of those toys turned people insane, as did parents trying desperately to get tgat one important toy for their kid at Christmas. It was idiotically impassioned mania. Ironically, Stuart and I would end up in the Baldwin which would also be full of lunatics, although we would be moaning about our faulty relationships or laughing disgracefully about things that would not be able to be repeated on this blog. One of the things we would laugh about was a friend of his who would relate everything in life to Bon Jovi lyrics. It’s okay when you’re 15. He was 20 at the time, and Stuart thinks he still does. I purposely lost contact with him, just for that reason. Two interesting nights come to mind; one of which two in toxicated young women started hurling glasses and insults at each other across the pub about some guy who I think was hiding under our table telling us to stay hush. The other night was on one particular bingo night. Bingo nights always seemed a bit corrupt at the Baldwin, as it was always the bingo caller’s best mate who would win. The bingo caller was a rude fat man with glasses and a small white beard. Not an attractive sort. Both Stuart and I couldn’t believe it once, when we saw him lick a young baby. The baby really shouldn’t have been there, as it was before the smoking ban in pubs; the poor soul might well have a lung defect now (irresponsable parenting). When we recounted this story to Pamela, she was didn’t believe us. She looked around the place, which is now more of a middle class suburban bar for families than a rough and ready working class pub that it was. Hungry Horse would claim the food is better. I don’t. It’s just more expensive. It wasn’t a nice pub before, but it did have some character. Now it’s a bit pretence. I promised Stuart I would take him to Tito Aguacates when he came to this neck of the woods, try a calambre. In the Hungry Horse, Pamela was quite impressed how many pints we could knock back in an hour, but I think Stuart was equally impressed how she could all three of us knocking back tequila shots on a Tuesday night.

Stu and I said our drunken goodbyes and made our way back to our respective homes. Luckily for Stuart, he lives quite close to the pub. Unluckily for Pamela, we went on a sobering walk home. Pamela was not impressed, but neither was I when I saw KFC was closed at Robin Hood Island. I paid for it with a hangover the next day.