Blown Away

A trip down to the harbour to check out the boats in the blow and pin up some notices. In the son's van which is a gas to drive. Your personality can't help change behind the wheel of a van with no rear view. It just does. I'm a fucking van driver now. I don't even write fekking. Or effing.
But enough of that. The roast beef is cooking. The Faugeres uncorked, (OK, it's actually a screwtop) as today is the daughter's last Sunday meal chez the Ps for some time. Tamarra she's off to London with her kitbag, makeup and a new kindle as a going away present. I'll miss her - the 4pm Sunday footy on Sky Sports won't be the same without her.