So here I am, sitting on a train, bound for Manchester.
Manchester is only Britain's 7th biggest city. Which I find surprising. Anything oop norff is surprising, this is dangerously uncharted territory. I am told that it's closer to Scotland than Dover is to France.
Anyway. How did I get here?
Well. Tomorrow, 25 events I have helped to organise, kick off across Britain. And I have to be in Manchester for the main event. Bearing in mind, my aunt and mum are safely in their [warm little] beds back at my digs in London.
I've taken the late train, so that I could tuck them in. And get a few glasses of wine in with the Brit. Before heading up north (fuck! It's near Liverpool! Will I be eaten?) to fulfill my career needs. In mass-eventing and press coverage-related activities. As one in PR is ought to do.
Damn shit luck as timing goes though. Having my family out from Canada and South Africa while I have to head three hours north on a high speed train.
I suppose we've all klapped the two bottles of Diemersfontein Pinotage mum lovingly bubble-wrapped for me to bring over in her suitcase. God it was tasty. Sweet baby Jesus.
We've had such a great time together, checking out the shops (I took two days off to run around London with them), seeing Grease at the theatre, high teas, curry eating on Brick Lane. It's been grand. Even if they're staying in my digs and they scrubbed our toilet with industrial bleach yesterday.
I shall get to my hotel, and flop face down in the crispy sheets, do my thing, then high speed train it back to
Britain's small. One can get around the country in mere hours. Thankfully.
Why are we all bundling down south for the weekend?
Because my family is meeting the Brit's family.
I'm not even freaking out yet. I will when one of them says something, guaranteed to happen, embarrassing.
The Brit's dad has set out an itinerary for us. To explore the wilds of New Forest and the rest of Hampshire (where the Brit is from), from pub lunching to castle viewing, to beach seeing. Bless.
God please may it all be just fine.
May the Brit and I not need to get plastered and pass out due to familial awkwardness.
Our house - the lovely one I wrote about down there? Well, our second offer got denied. Gutted.
It is with a sigh that we hit the drawing board again and continue our house hunting. It really was such a fucking perfect little place. We even fully investigated it and did our thorough research, like talk to the tenants below us and the bistro owner to make sure we were going for a good thing.
And wham. Denied. Fuckery fuckery.
Oh well. Back to my Hello! magazine. Jesus someone needs to turn the heating down in this train. The furnaces are blazing. It's zero degrees outside (expected snow even), and I'm beading out here.