Visiting Mark in London

Darren and Mark in Windsor

D and I visited one of my oldest friends, Mark Jagger, in London this weekend. Known him since I was 20. Arrrggh lol! Hadn't been to see him since 2002 when the three of us went to see the band Garbage in Brixton Academy. We had a brilliant time in 2002, and had been really wanting to visit him again, but schedules always got in the way. We met at his restaurant (he's the Manager of Nico's Restaurant in The Crown Plaza at Heathrow Airport), as he couldn't manage to get anyone to cover the evening shift. We set off 8pm and arrived just before midnight. Met his lodger Sean and pal Dan, with whom D and Mark had a mini-lock-in before heading to Mark's house. I had a few drinks too upon landing at Mark's house, and then D and I slept on the inflatable mattress in the livingroom lol.

Windsor Castle

On Saturday Mark took us into Windsor and we had a nice we wander around, visited a few pubs, and sat in the beer garden before getting some v nice food in the Lloyds pub, sitting on the verandah, shaded by the parasols overlooking Windsor's parks and canal basking in the sunshine...lovely.


View from the Lloyds verandah...




We caught up on alot of gossip, and then returned to the house to his lodger Sean and pal Karen, who happens to herald from Anchorsholme (not 6 miles from where we live near Blackpool). She's a qualified and happily working teacher, but, as weird as co-incidence is, she worked at D and I's workplace a few years ago when at Uni as a casual Admin Assistant and even worked at the other end of my office (about 60 people per office) and I could actually place her, even though she'd only been there 3 months 2yr ago lol! As Warbreck houses over 200o civil servants, that is a weird statistical probability. Not only does she know my mate, but used to work in my office 250 miles away- never did I dream we'd end up being mutual friends of a bloke that lives in London, nevermind meet again! Cracking girl.

Karen, Sean & Devil Woman

The five of us went out to Uxbridge that night, as Mark knew we were a tad skint (weekend before payday) so Central London was out. We had a wee drink in a few pubs and a late bar, girls had a dance, and most of us had a kebab (Sorry but haute cuisine note here: not as good as Sinbad's in Blackpool. And nothing can beat a Wolverhampton kebab. Good try but 7 out of 10).

Ww arrived home 2.30, and we were looking forward to a relaxing drink and chill in the backgarden before retiring. Instead D and I managed to get 4 and a half hrs sleep after a situation unfolded, that resulted in staying up with Mark until dawn, me sat out on the patio in the spitting rain with him, while D cleaned the sofa and carpet where Karen had projectile vomited...(you look back at this things in time, and laugh, hopefully...)

The next morning Mark set us up with a fantastic fry up for the drive home, and we all sat outside on his patio:

Darren's appreciative photo of his Sunday morning breakfast (flippin' gorgeous yum yum)

To be honest I was totally psychologically and physically shattered, so the return home took 5 and a half hours, with me at one point seriously thinking of staying overnight in a Birmingham motel as I was exhausted with lack of sleep and my trapped nerve was kicking off. D did most of the driving home bless him. I felt guilty as I am the experienced driver and I was unable to do my fair share. But Darren insisted if I wasn't feeling well then he would jump in. He took it in his stride...you would never know he's only ever driven on a motorway 5-6 times since passing his driving test this February, and the motorway drives were reasonably short drives (most was 100 miles). I just got us out of London thru M25, M4 and then swapped at Oxford on the M40. Darren did the M40, M42, M6 & M55 ( I valiantly tried a drive attempt again at Sandbach, but could only manage 20 mins before having to pull over onto a slip-road and swap places. My neck was wrecking me and I was scared that I was losing concentration due to fatigue). I fell asleep when D took over the driving I was that sure of his abilities, felt totally safe...and I don't like sleeping in cars!

We landed around 7 and called out for Dominos (no way could we face cooking lol) and made a big fuss of the cat, who Ann had fed for the past two days. He was in the mood for big cuddles and affection. Normality was restored when Greebo sat in D's lap. Ahhh!!

Darren and I in the beer garden of Henry IV pub in Windsor

My back update (oh dear...) and Sunny Blackpool shocker

Yes dear readers...we have been having unseasonally lovely hot weather this past fortnight...hence the fact I've been a bit quiet on the Blog front...I've either been out in it or laid up with bad back and neck.

Firstly, the trapped nerve in the neck has been diagnosed at being at position C5, near the base of the neck. The Chiropractor has narrowed it down to this being the 'Bad Boy' of my problem- mostly down to my 'input' and the experience afew weeks ago...

C5- this is where my nerve is trapped...in here...this is the wee bar-steward causing the havoc...

The 'input' and 'insight' I gave to the Dr was simple...two weeks ago this Friday, I began to have a niggling, dull headache start in the middle of my forehead, travel across the left of my head, around and behind the eyes stretching round into the base of my neck, like a migraine starting.
Then I started to get strange feelings in my left arm and the first finger on my left hand started to jump and twitch all by itself. I'm quite accustomed to this, so ignored it- I fondly call it the 'X-Box finger'. I began with this headache and twitchy hand whilst upstairs, so, putting it down to a stressful day, I pottered down into the livingroom to get some painkillers from my handbag.
I remember going to sit down on the sofa, and then...I remember a haze, being rudely awoken and feeling disorientated...I was laid out on the floor with Darren over me shouting "Celia, Celia! Do you want an ambulance?!" I'd blacked out, and collapsed onto the floor. Thankfully, somehow, I'd missed the corner of the coffee table, otherwise it would have been much more serious.
I've actually experienced these before, but always put it down to 'low blood sugar', a 'hypo'. Although I am not diabetic, I did go without food for 8-9hrs once in my teens and flaked out was told by the GP it was low blood sugar and not to go without food for too long. So when this -my third- blackout happened, to be honest I eventually came round, got up, brushed it off, and had a few sweets to bring my suspected low sugar level back up again.

However, at the following Chiropractic consultation last week, I happened to mention this blackout. I was beginning to suspect something wasn't right.
The Doc gave me a full all-over check, muttering and umm'ing as they do, and started asking 101 questions such as;

" Did you have visual disturbance before or after?"
"No" I replied.
"Did you have any slurring of speech before or after?"
"No" I replied again...and from my dealing with medical reports, conditions and medical evidence everyday at work, I started to get a niggling feeling that I knew where this was going, and so added, " No, and I do not believe I have had a TIA (mini stroke)."

He sat, he pondered, and he asked my reasoning behind this. "Well the symptoms don't fit with the diagnosis of a TIA, and I've actually had these blackouts before." I replied, and then froze- I'd forgotten to tell him this before, as of course, I didn't believe it was relevant.
Now I knew it was. I told the Dr about the first one when I was 18, being checked for diabetes, clean slate etc. It suddenly dawned on me, that I had then gone for 16 years before experiencing not one, but three including this one in the past 16 months...since I'd hurt my back. I told him this, and that I'd never said anything because, well, I didn't think it was relevant, and the GP had never paid much attention except for occasional blood tests showing I was fine and dandy.

The Dr was satisfied with my account of the signs leading up to it- textbook compression, apparently. He declared that the trapped nerve is at C5- the base of the neck, and right-bang next to it, are the main blood vessels to the brain. Basically...when the medial C5 nerve kicks off, it compresses the blood vessels in my neck, my blood pressure suddenly drops and 'Bang!' I hit the floor unconscious because of a mixture of no blood getting to my brain and oxygen deprivation. (No jokes, you lot, about me actually having a brain lol).

This made sense- I added that the old hospital physio last year tried to crack my neck twice, didn't know what she was doing, and made me violently sick and dizzy for 24 hrs after each treatment. When I told her it had happened again (after she ignored the first one) she panicked and refused to touch me again and just gave me rubber bands to exercise my shoulder with!
My GP, upon hearing this complaint at the time, cheerfully said, "Ahh, yes, I understand her reluctance to treat you...if you had been older, she could have caused a stroke". (insert your own expletives here).

So anyway, it's looking good now, because we have the answer! I am prepared and safe in the knowledge that if I get that tingle again along with the headache...to support/rest my neck immediately and I can avoid it happening (hopefully). Plus I am now receiving the treatment my body requires to adjust the nerve back into its rightful position. In a strange way, I'm glad it happened- I have received specific diagnosis because of it, which benefits the Dr with his Treatment Plan. It was also proof that although I am still susceptible to these blackouts, that my autonomic nervous system is working again- I was proudly displaying the bruise on my left arm where my arm had tried to stop the fall whilst unconscious...I have been without this reflex for 15 months. My body is starting to work again!!! Result!!

So now you know why I wasn't near the PC until last night- because I can't touch-type and I haven't wanted to bend my neck lol!!!


Summer...

Summer Cat

Now, back to the Summer....ahhhhhhh....been Hell at work (no air conditioning and no fans in the buildings and we're hitting 33 degrees some days) but fantastic at home on weekends and evenings! We are just so NOT used to this weather. Southern England are on drought warnings and some parts of the country are on restricted water use. Up here in Lancashire, we're fine as the amount of water in our reservoirs is healthier, due to the usual large rainfalls in Winter/ Spring.


Alot of BBQs have been had (yumm yumm) and a few weeks ago, after watching England get kicked out of the World Cup, the Gang returned to Gill's house and had a BBQ. I made my new-found obsession, potato salad too (recipe courtesy of Karen and Stef who gave me it) and we relaxed and had afew drinkies as the daylight faded into twilight, into darkness, lit by garden candles and the coals of the BBQ.



D and I have also been having min-BBQs on the spur of the moment when returning home from a long and arduous day at work, grabbing disposable BBQ trays and having dinner al fresco in the garden with cat for company!










Greebo pretending not to smell the cooking meat...

...and the providing Man of the house providing lovely grub!

Daleks- Stand Up for Your Rights!!! The unreleased Dalek Episode

Darren loves Dr Who. Always has, and was thrilled when it returned, as millions of other mid-thirties men were who grew up thinking that club-swinging cave-dwelling side-kick Leela would make a great girlfriend when they were nine.

I also, loved Dr Who when I was a dungeree-wearing roller-skating kid- and I have a confession to make- I love the new ones too.

Which is what got us onto a topic of conversation in bed the other night, when, I had one of my usual off-the-wall-lateral-thinking moments...I put the question: would it all have been different if the Daleks had been in a Union?



Scene i:

(Two Daleks come on from Right of Stage into a Wetherspoons pub Interior)

(Dalek 1) Jeff: Alright Pete

(Dalek2) Pete: Alright Jeff

Jeff: How's the missus Pete?

Pete: (wiggles his eye-stalk) Alright thanks mate, y'know. She's a lovely piece of kit- y'know, but she's a Cylon, know wot I mean? Christ those Cylons....they just give you grief, year in, year out...

Jeff: Oh I know mate, oh I know (wiggles plunger in exasperation) - my Pauline, a right goer in the right department, but gawd, she's a real Cyberbabe in the wrong way when she gets off on one, "why aren't you hoovering the stairs, blah blah blah". I hate the bar steward that wrote it in that we could suddenly hover. I pretended that I couldn't make it to the top landing before that.

Pete: Yeah mate you've got the worst of both worlds there mate...emotionless and a woman.


(Jeff and Pete both take a moment to dip their plungers into a pitcher of Lager)


Pete: Burrrrp 'Cuse me. Always catches me circuits that does.

Jeff: Y'know...I do wonder sometimes why we do this job. Davros is always goin' on about 'supremacy' and 'extermination'- but where does it get us?

Pete: Yeah and we don't get paid. But at least we get job satisfaction.

Jeff: Job satisfaction? What job satisfaction? I go home after a day of murder destruction and mayhem and it's always the same. It doesn't make socialising any easier either- I always end up killin' potential mates.

Pete: hmm gotta point there son.

Jeff: (hushed dalek tone) I think we should form a Union.

Pete: WHHHAAATT??

Jeff: Yeah mate...a UNION!!

Pete: Why would I want to be in a Dalek Union?

Jeff: Well. working hours for a start! After 12 hrs me hover laser starts to short circuit. Surely its against EEC Health and Safety Regulations?

Pete: Hmm...

Jeff: AND what about pay?

Pete: What pay?

Jeff: EXACTLY mate. Davros is there, lording it about, fancy buttons to push and everything, and what do we get?

Pete: Errmm...

Jeff: It's all very well for the Emperor to sit on his backside in his fancy spaceship orderin' us about, but whose gonna tell the missus that our two week holiday on the other side of Skaro is cancelled due to "another unexpected attack on Earth"??!!

Pete (sips more lager through his plunger): That'll be you Jeff.

Jeff: Exactly. Muggins 'ere. Another wasted two week invasion of Earth, only to be sent packin' by that bloke in that Blue Box and his latest bird.

Pete (Pauses): I like the curly haired one though- with the scarf. He was alright- he gave me a few jelly babies once. Nice bloke.

Jeff: Yeah, yeah, I'll give you that. Better than that psycho from Salford last year. He wouldn't give you the time of day.

Pete: Yeah. He just had a hissy fit and started flappin'. His bird had to sort that out.

Pete and Jeff (together): Northern poof.

Jeff: But this brings me back to my point. Our working conditions are the worst in the Galaxy.

Pete: Such as?

Jeff: Well as I said- no pay, no contracted working hours, no pension and no sick leave. Davros makes you commit hari-kari if you have a sniffle: programmed to commit suicide if there's a chance you'll be made prisoner! No Geneva Convention for us, mate.

Pete: Yeah look at Mike last year. Poor sod.

Jeff: PLUS plus (sips more lager, getting more and more loud and drunk) plusss...no contract, no bonus pay. No overtime. Infact, no pay at all- supposed to do it for ' The Greater Supremacy Of The Daleks.' Greater Supremacy- where does that get us? My bank manager wouldn't even give me a mortgage.

Pete: No way! After you fixed his sink as well! What did you do?

Jeff (burps loudly): Exterminated him.

Pete: Fair do's. (wiggles his eye stalk)

Jeff: AND we have to put that stupid voice on.

Pete: Yeah- in the 70s they made me sound like Zippy from Rainbow.

Jeff: You know, that Davros- he aint so hard y'know. He can't even boast he gets his spare parts from Halfords.

Pete: He thinks giving us a spray-job of metallic car paint is giving us an upgrade.

Jeff: Exactly mate. Although the missus quite liked it, I was council-house grey before. And I had that obvious kitchen-whisk arm replaced by a proper laser, like. So, your missus...did she give you the eye when you came in the house looking like that?

Pete: She loved it- she was bombin' around like KITT off Knightrider. Zoom-zoom, zoom-zoom, her little eye went. So romantic.

Jeff: Aww. Lahhhh-vely.

Pete(looks at watch): Corr blimey, I better get back to her...old Davvy might think he's the Boss, but we know who the real boss is, don't we mate?

Jeff and Pete (in unison): Her Indoors.



Exit Left.

A tirade against a certain pub-chain's clientele in Blackpool

Ok.

Let's get one thing perfectly clear- I usually love Wetherspoons pubs- chain of UK pubs whose main sell is, because they do not pay for overly-hiked royalties to records companies to pump the latest tunes into the pubs ( i.e.they don't play music), it allows them to sell drinks at reduced prices. And it is brilliant. It may be my age, but I adore being out at night, have a drink with pals and able to hear what they're saying, rather than doing a damn fine impression of Gollam as my face contorts in my desperate attempt to hear what they've just said over 93 decibels of Macarena in Yates'.

Decent Wetherspoons in Manchester

I love the Manchester Wetherspoons- two of the most lovely decorated pubs, with atmosphere, buzz and no Gollam impersonations to be seen. Torquay- lovely; Preston; Fleetwood; Lytham; Brixton...ahhh.

But then you visit the Blackpool one.

*WARNING:

THE NEXT TIRADE OF ABUSE SHOULD BE AVOIDED BY PERSONS OF A SENSITIVE NATURE*

Picture the scene.

It is a lovely, warm and balmy evening in July. After a hard day at work, my better half suggests a wee walk to the pub, and grab a bite to eat. He suggests nipping to Wetherspoons in South Shore...not a 20 minute stroll from our home.

Cecelia does an excellent impression of the Incredible Hulk.

There is a reason why cliches and stereotypes exist- they invariably have a grain of Truth lurking somewhere deep inside them. Take Wetherspoons in Blackpool- why is every Wetherspoons I've ever visited have been lovely places to eat and drink? Even Fleetwood?! But in the Blackpool pub in South Shore, cliches abound aplenty.

You approach the bar.
Infront of you, is a young, terrified pimpled youth staring back at you saying in his mind, "please don't want a drink please don't want a drink". His startled Bambi impression reminds you that one week earlier, he'd been in the cellars rolling beer barrels back and forth until the Manager, desperate for front-line help, demands he goes upstairs and serves behind the bar.
You ask for your drink...his trembling hands grasp the beer glass until you think it will shatter; the glass fills with foam as he desperately looks around for help and he thinks he spots it- the supervisor. The 'supervisor', is at least a whole two years older than he is, a sour-faced-looking brunette who runs around behind the bar as if she's terribly busy, until you notice she's doing nothing. Except looking busy. As she darts in and out behind the bar blatantly ignoring his Bambi expression, more and more people descend onto the bar.
They want serving.
Our now flushed and red-necked barboy is now beyond himself with terror- but at least your glass of foam that he put to the side 5 minutes ago has started to resemble at least a third of a pint of lager. He starts on the next lager and does a little better...but he still needs help to serve the next 16 people all now throwing looks to the sky, coughing and sighing loudly. His supervisor, at last, comes back out into the bar area- but with a case of alcopops. She surveys the queue of waiting customers and does what any supervisor does... turns her back and slowly begins to stock the fridge with alcopops.

The 16 'men' who were so blatently sighing and coughing, now turn it up a gear. They are all here on a Stag Night...and their coach arrived in Blackpool 2 hours ago and they're on the pull. But first, they must tank up. This pimple-head is costing them vital drinking time. The 'subtle' cues are obviously being blatently ignored, so they now turn into jeering and shouts of "come on mate we're next", as a few of the men declare their intention of "going for a slash- get us a pitcher mate- we'll get drunk faster". They push against you at the bar, being blatently rude and shoving with their elbow whilst pretending they're doing nothing of the sort. Lots of forced laughter and male-jokes abound as the overwhelming stench of various cheap aftershaves mingle with each other in the confined space, and you start praying mentally for the damn barchild to hurry up.

As you try to patiently wait for your two pints of beer to emerge, you turn your head and catch the look of a old man sitting at the bottom of the bar. He sits alone, smoking a pack of Hamlet cigars, drinking bitter and has spread his newspaper out over two feet of the barspace on the Horse-racing pages. It is at least 30 degrees in the shade; but he is still wearing that old tweed discoloured jacket over a grubby-collared shirt and a yellowing vest. He has never heard of deodorant- B.O. is that woman who was in that film called 10 with blonde dreadlocks.
He catches your look: you smile at him in acknowledgement, and he returns a burning look of hatred that you are in His Local. You are ruining the quiet order of things. And he detests you. The barboy isn't listening to his inane drivel of the 1966 World Cup or of the odds on the 3.30 at Aintree and he doesn't like it. He hates you and blows foul-smelling smoke your way before returning to scanning the horse fixtures.

Meanwhile, back at the table you picked whilst waiting for the better half orders the drinks, you casually read the Menu, and decide on your order. Your better half returns with the wet and foamed lagers and places them where beer-mats should be. A typical family of Blackpool holiday-makers enter the public bar, and plonk themselves not 6 feet away from you. The wife, sunburnt red because "it's the first day of the holiday innit" shouts shrilly at the two E-number addict children running round the table before someone hits the other and screams and shouts begin.
You try to hide your face in your beer glass as you note her arm-pits aren't shaven, her bright pink sweat-soaked strapless t-shirt rides up over her stomach (as she's a size 20 but buys 16s) and her home-bleached hair "because she's worth it" is turning green. The husband- usually rake-thin- sits slovenly in his Adidas bottoms, paying little attention to the bedlam surrounding him, except when one of the kids knocks the table where his beer sits. Then he hollers, usually with expletives "sit the f**k down" etc etc and child crying and tantrums ensue. His tattoos, pierced ear and his spikey haircut from the '80s remind him he's still a stud, but you can see the hunter became the hunted when he got her up the duff.

As you sit and eat your cooling food and foam-ridden Grolsch, surrounded by pimple-laden barboys, stinky old men, alcohol-ridden stag night yobs and holidaying families, you wonder why you came in.

And that, my friends, is why you should NEVER EVER go to Blackpool Wetherspoons.
It's so sh*te that even WetherspoonsPlc haven't taken a photo of it for their company website.

Be warned.


Fin.

Italy Wins the World Cup- Zidane a Disgrace

Well, there we were, sitting in the livingroom, glued to the TV. I was so wanting France to win...afterall, it was Zinadine Zidane's final international game, a player who came out of retirement to serve his country, a player whose ability and talent I have respected and admired for many years was to once again, serve France.


Nearly 2 hours later, I was sitting hunched, shocked, watching a mature and respected footballer act like a twelve year old, head-butting an Italian and subsequently being shown the red card in the final 10 minutes of extra time.



This wasn't a hot-headed young Beckham of '98 or the Rooney of 2006 being sent-off through their immaturity and inability to control their passion for the game.

This was a highly respected footballer of another generation, the French captain, the one person who all the French players look to for guidance and with respect. And he, in full view of officials and the world-wide audience, exchanged words with Materazzi, then turned round, and squarely and with full intention, head-butted the Italian in the chest, with full venom and no apology.

He didn't just let himself down. He let his players down, the French fans down, and above all, his country down. His red-card secured Italy's victory and was the final nail in the coffin after Henri was substituted, ensuring that when it reached penalties, France would fail.

He failed himself and he failed the World Cup. An amazing player who should have bowed out with honours, will be written in history in a different light.

No mention will be made of the European medals he has won, no mention of the caps he earned, no mention of the international respect he achieved.

He will just be remembered as 'the one who head-butted that Italian in the 06 World Final' in years to come.

What a way to finish your career.

What an idiot.

Shady Days

Qiuck update, as you may (or not) have noticed a quiet few weeks on the ol' Blog.

Things that went well:

Finally saw the Chiropractor (Dr of nervous system and spine), who I was referred to by my GP. Final diagnosis of trapped nerve at C1-C2-C6 (top of neck) and irritated nerve at T9-T11 (between shoulder blades). Had neck cracked four times so far (rung like a chicken, so loud that Darren heard the cracks and snaps) that forces the nerves back into place.

It was amazing- the pain that has been there 24/7 for 15 months has suddenly reduced.

In one week:

• I was able to drive down to West Mids to see Karen and Stef, and then be driven back by Darren (over 200 odd miles)

• Go to Cardiff for an overnight stay for a business meeting (7 and a half hr drive there, 4 and a half back)*

* this is funny...I was NOT driving thankfully lol...8 officers from work in two cars, went to see the Welsh HQ of DCS and how they work, share best practice, etc...I fell asleep to find that the car I was travelling in, had stopped at a service station at COVENTRY?! WRONG WAY NEIL! Thankfully as I'd lived in the Midlands, I knew the motorways, and was able to re-direct us back onto motorways that would get us to Wales and then Cardiff. Hence the shorter time back, as I was voted in as Navigator after that lol.

The other car wasn't so fortunate...they ended up in LONDON on the M25 LMAO (laugh my arse off!!!)

• Go to Leeds for a meeting with the Head of DCS Internal Communications (just under two hundred return trip)

• Drive to Liverpool the same week to see the Pet Shop Boys gig.

A big difference from Jan/Feb when I was medically forbidden to be in a car, never mind drive, for longer than half an hour!


PSB...


Felt so much better, that I was able to go to see the Pet Shop Boys at Liverpool SummerPops 2006, who incidentally, were fantastic. I bounced around like a nineteen year old flinging arms in the air and joining in- Neil Tennant said we were the best audience on the tour so far!

• Painkillers reduced by 200%

• Able to lift my God daughter for the first time in 6 months last week!!

Daddy and Charlotte at her Christening in May xx

• Germany beat cheating slimballs Portugal ( Ich bin glucklich! Deutchland gedemutigtes Portugal heh heh heh!!) Humiliated! Heheheheheheheheh!!!!! No 'wink wink' now Ronaldo, eh mate?!
  

Things that didn't go quite so well:

• England kicked out of the World Cup by cheating Portugeuse slimeheads (see above; danke Nici!)

• I was warned by the Doc that the inital part of the treatment would be up and down...pain kicked in big style earlier this week, resulting in being driven home early by Darren Tuesday, and eventually having to bow to pain pressure and be off friday with pain (Freitag mit schmertz)

• I woke with stinking hangover this morning after going out with Darren last night to catch up with our mate Pete- also a Wolverhampton Wanderers fan! He also went to Wolves Uni but we met at work years ago. He's mint and gets us tickets to the matches when he can (his missus Laura works in the Wolves FC office!). It was Nathan's 18th birthday (Pete's brother) and an excellent night was had by all. 'The Doc' ( Steve-he's a Wolves fan and a GP in Poulton) was there of course, who we meet at a game. And he's off his head too. Cracking night- highlight being Laura's mum who used to live in Wollaston Stourbridge and we were reminiscing and chatting all night! (I'd love to live there again).
  

So overall, although the pain is sometimes goes and then returns, it's reasonably bearable to live with and I know that one day I shall be how I was at PSB, all the time...pain-free, happy, able to use my left-hand properly- important as left-handed!- and counting myself lucky that the pain wasn't forever... thanks to a decent GP who referred me to a Chiropractor able to force the trapped nerves back into their rightful positions xxxxxxx

Visiting Karen & Stef

23-25th June: It's the weekend where Karen and Stef usually go to Glastonbury. Sadly, this year, the 'ground is resting', and so it's not on. Celia decided that bein' a psychology graduate 'n' all, that her best bud required emergency counselling and support. She rallied all her shady business chums from her times as an Insurance Advisor in Solihull to throw Karen a party!

Thus, Shifnal Carnival was born!!!

Celia smug infront of her carnival



Nah not really. And I bet you knew I was lying. Nevermind.

Well D and I made it down to KC and Stefs, and a grand time was had by all. They took us out to Cadbury's World in Bournville Birmingham (ahhh...yum yum yumm)...it's the main factory in the UK where Cadbury's chocolate is made, and it was pretty interesting! It was, of course, pushing the Cadbury's Is Best marketing, but that's to be expected. They gave away free choccie bars and the factory shop was v good! We all came away with lots of chocolate- not all of it for me lol! I bought some for my work colleagues and staff (they were very pleased), as well as Dad- and of course afew for me tee hee!

Celia and Karen-KC-in Cadbury's

There was a small nugget of truth in the first paragraph...it is the weekend KC and Stef usually go to Glasto, and it does fall on the same days as the Shifnal Carnival- so we had a peek as you can see!

KC and Stef then had a fab BBQ where we had a lovely night eating al fresco, nibbling and drinking outdoors on the patio as the light faded, warmed by the BBQ coals and warm soft night breeze...


and then these barm-pots below turned up and spoilt everything.










Darren and Stef compete in the "Impersonation of the Hammer House Butler answering-the-door Competition"

Fab weekend!