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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson



I kept making a point of saying "We’re on holiday!" to He Who Only…, every time it occurred to me to say so. This, I think, was adorable when we were in Kings Cross on Friday night, and also while we were on the train on the way there, doing the Irish Times crossword. By the time it was Saturday afternoon and Liverpool were 1-0 down, He Who Only… was finding it a little tiresome.

While we were on holiday, we did our best to do holiday things. Having the parents that we both have (two different sets, obviously, although they are strikingly similar in some ways. They're not related though. No. We've checked. Lots of times), our impression of what constitutes holiday things are traipsing around the country side with jackets tied around our waists and wandering around areas of historical significance, pointing at follies and grottos and counting the ducks.



I remarked to He Who Only… on Sunday afternoon after we had gotten up early enough to fit in one more National Trust site before we had to catch the train home, that when we were in our late teens, when we dreamt about a time where we would be devoid of parental supervision, have enough disposable cash to take us anywhere in Western Europe and have access to a car and be legally allowed to purchase alcohol, never did we think that we’d voluntarily spend our spare time traipsing through Sherwood Forest trying to name all of the different species of birds and loving every minute of it.

We were standing on the bridge across the dam, staring across the wetlands to the rows and rows of fields stretching out behind it. A swallow swooped in and out of the rushes. Piles of well ordered hay stacks stood out in surreal shapes in the background. Ducks took off and landed around us, shouting back at each other, making the only noise to be heard other than the constant busy rushing of water. He Who Only… turned to me and very seriously declared that this would be what he’d be thinking of, the next time he was standing in the middle of the stench and unpleasantness that is Dalston Kingsland station.

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