Hello you! I'm back!
I cannot stress enough just how brilliant a decision it was to go to the Lake District last week. I have trench foot. I reckon that would be much harder to get somewhere sunny. Maybe not. I don't know.
I do know that I didn't manage to get any landscape drawing done. Prior to going, I rather whimsically envisaged myself sat beside a lake, sipping red wine and sketching hosts of golden daffodils. I know they're not in season, but you get the idea. The only time we managed to get out anywhere was for a rather miserable trudge round Windermere. The rest of the time was spent at what was basically an upmarket Butlins with trees.
It didn't strike me as Tilly's sort of place, and it certainly wasn't mine, but she got some sort of deal due to some sort of friend due to some sort of mutual backscratching exercise. Anyway, the place was like a fascist's vision of utopia, with great emphasis placed on physical jerks and bike riding. The car park was full of four-by-fours, and the clientele seemed to consist of professional types who had - to their eternal regret - saddled themselves with children. Typical sight: mid-forties man lagging slightly behind his younger, very pretty wife and their adorable pre-school age daughter, talking work stuff into his mobile.
I am officially in love. I know this because the words uppermost in my mind all week have been, "I told you it would fucking piss down all fucking week, you fucking arse", and I managed not to say them.