The Beginning of The End.

I finally arrived back at the Lanark Academy to find myself in such denial that when asked for my address by a cab driver I couldn’t remember it.

Inga, dear Swedish mother, and her wife, Anna, saw me off this morning before GNER provided their usual extraordinary service, including an all expenses paid trip via grotty coach around Newark Northgate and beyond.

Back in the land where the national cuisine consists of oats, offal and Irn Bru I find Naz and zee German hosting a gathering of shy Euro brats with some kind of salmonella infested carrot cake as the centrepiece. No need to be gloomy though, the Fawcett society have sent me an evening’s entertainment in the form of their newsletter screaming “Reclaim the f word!” across the cover. So this is what I get for yet another charity direct debit. Perhaps this is divine retribution for a previous position as a successful saleswoman for Sky mini-dish and digi-box insurance: “Flooding, theft and footballs at only £9 per month, yes this is mandatory…”).

Tomorrow I am reunited with Gertrude, meanwhile I will try not to eavesdrop on the Euro brats discussing “The Dangers of Alchohol”. I am considering joining them momentarily to pour myself a mug of gin, in silence, and then leave.

Good night and good luck,
Olga Whim signing off.