We had a bank holiday weekend here, in this united kingdom, the weekend just gone. It was super. The weather, which was predicted to be terrible, was nothing of the sort. It was largely sunny, warm and spring-like. Just watch the doctor ordered.
Friday night we launched festivities with a couple of jolly old ales at one of our locals. Every pub in the vicinity was packed, but everyone was in gerr-ate spirits. There was real feeling of optimism and comradeship broad; it was lovely, like being at war, but with rationing and carpet bombing.
On Saturday morning I continued my preparations for the up-coming time trial season by going on a 2-hour training ride out in the sticks. Post this, I had that euphoric feeling one gets, a mix of endorphins and hubris at having done some exercise.
This feeling was bolstered by a 2-hour walk in the Essex countryside with the missus, followed by a slap-up binge dinner for two with fine wines and ice cream. Marvellous. I slept like cadaver on Saturday night as a result.
On Sunday we trundled up to Cambridge, which is pleasant enough for a couple of hours. A vegetarian scone and a browse around England's sole surviving independent bookshop then home. We met friends for noisy, drunk bourgeois drinks that evening to see the sabbath out.
Yesterday (Monday) was spent at a dog obedience show and then in the West End browsing around expensive shops, which is the quintessential British bank holiday Monday in a nutshell. It's liberating to be cliched from time to time.
Huzzah!
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