Don’t They Have Homes To Go To?

I get up at 6.30 and shower, meanwhile the party is still going on, albeit now around Daughter who is asleep in the middle of the lounge floor. As I wish the conscious ones a good morning, a lad passes me on the way to the fridge for another Stella. Someone else is flat out on the settee and everyone else seems to sitting on them, or perhaps it’s just my imagination, it was quite dark in there.

The dogs and I make our apologies and head off to our show. I've no idea how Daughter and Big D are going to manage their morning paper rounds.

Mid morning, I text L. Apparently our guests are still there. Blimey. That’s some party. Don’t they have homes to go to? Daughter and Big D have impressively managed to crawl around their paper rounds. After which they probably both rejoined the party, although Daughter has another two rounds to do later this morning.

The show goes ok, we manage three clear rounds out of four but they’re hardly scintillating runs. Doggo is running like a dog who was playing football at 2am and to be fair, it’s also very hot, too hot for Doggo. So no rosettes today. MD on the other hand is rampant and more than willing to take his place, if only I would let him.

We get home to find that both our socialite teenagers are out. Daughter, after an afternoon catching up on some sleep, has gone off to another party, although hopefully a more leisurely 50th birthday bash for one of her friend's mother. Whilst Big D has gone camping for the night. Now, let me type that again, our canvas averse son has gone camping, willingly and without the use of thumb screws. He also taken our new tent, the one with the wrong instructions and a sports bag full of Strongbow, as you do, with perhaps a clean pair of socks tucked in there somewhere. I just hope he deals with the tent before he deals with contents of the sports bag.

So with the house to ourselves and the two dogs so tired they can barely move, there’s no rush to go out, no rush at all.

Later when we do head out, we amble in the sun up to the Fox and Crown, without the dogs. When we get home and are both bursting to well, get rid of the several pints we have consumed, we can’t get into the bathroom. At all. This may be because we’ve had a few too many or perhaps it because the catch on the door has finally given up the ghost. In the end we manage to come to a remarkable conclusion, taking into account our joint inebriation, and opt to sleep on the decision to kick the bathroom door in. Toilet visits are taken in the garden much to the dog’s delight.