cheese on a stick

England truly is the land of cheese. And i don't mean in the chuncky, rancid, mouldy milk sense (though it's that, too). No, i mean in the goofy 2 grown adults on a date that would better suit a couple 12-year-olds sense.

You are NOT going to belive where he took me this weekend.

(After a wind-up like that i'd better deliver the goods, eh?)

Started out normal enough. He texted "Iz going shopping. U wanna be a mallrat 4 da afternoon." (see? my man is down with the lingo.) I knew he needed stuff for his trip (he's leaving for Egypt this saturday), and I also know that he HATES shopping, so i figured he figured my company would make a miserable chore slightly more bearable.

We went out to worship at the Temple of Consumerism that is the mall at Cribbs Causeway and throw our money in the collection plates (better known at cash registers) being attended by those high priests of Consumerism, Sales Assistants. Welcome to Hell, children. Menswear is on the ground floor.

It took about 90 minutes of roving and price-checking, but he finally got the Speedo he wanted. (Smallest one he could find! hehehe.) Upon leaving the mall and sitting the traffic queues to get out of the parking lot he said "Fancy an ice cream?"

"Sure," said I.

Guess where he took me for ice cream? Go on, guess. You'll never guess. OK, I'll tell you...





...the Grand Pier at Weston-Super-Mare! HA!

We drove through the countryside on the back roads as is our habit, then zipped up and down the windy avenues of the sea-side towns, admiring the gardens and the architecture, pointing out places we would like (but will NEVER be able to afford) to live some day. Then he parked the car and we walked along the beach to the Grand Pier.

I have never been to an English seaside resort town, and so had never experienced anything like this. It was tack on a scale I have rarely witenessed in America (and that's saying something). Roulette next to the bouncy castle, slot machines by the bumper cars! Something for the whole family, all illuminated with seizure-inducing neon lights guaranteed to make even Kathy Ireland look like the Cryptkeeper and contained within dilapidated, paint-flaking victorian architecture. Charming.

But we wandered down the pier, holding hands, trying to keep our hair out of each other's faces (the wind had another idea). We stood at the end of the pier, keeping close for warmth and using each other as a wind shield, him with his raspberry ripple and me with my rum raisin. we didn't speak.

3 hours after the suggestion of ice cream we were home.

This, apparently, is his idea of "going for an ice cream." All together now: "Awwww!"