A weekend at a sleepover

Should someone turn to me all snooty-nosed to utter,

“Aged 34, you’re a little old for a ‘sleepover’, aren’t you?”

I’d agree thus:

‘Cause no-one’s ever too old for that.

Saturday was meant to see Shaun, Myles, and me paddle-boarding at a local watersports-festival-come-bike-race, but Storm Hannah had other plans. Due to her high winds, water-stuff got cancelled.

So Saturday saw Shaun, Myles, and me watching Scooby Doo, playing trains and cars, baking cakes, trying to find Wally, playing Hot-n-Cold… Once the kid had gone to bed, I cracked open the pink gin.

A movie I recommend: Happy Death Day. It’s a bit like Final Destination meets Groundhog Day, and nothing of the sort. This lady repeats the same day’s she’s murdered until she finds her killer.

I didn’t get woken on Sunday with a cannonball, as I’d been told to expect. Instead Myles was very gentle up in my face,

We had breakfast, played trains, watched Scooby Doo…

It was a great sleepover! Again! Again! Again!


The personal triumph of the weekend came at the allotment.

It was a hell of a lot busier than I’ve ever seen it, and the only parking space left meant I had to reverse a good million miles (maybe 100 yards), do this sort of shuffle, avoid the precipice that is the difference between the road and some allotment heights, to get myself facing rightways so I could drive out.

I’m pleased to announce my success, evidenced by the fact that I’m not still there.

It might’ve taken me 10-minutes, and I might’ve spent a lot of those minutes correcting myself, but I did it. (A few of those corrections I don’t think I needed to do, though.)


I ended this weekend absolutely mortified.

I haven’t felt mortified in years and it took me a little moment to realise it was that that I was feeling.

Utterly shocked. Stunned. Gob smacked. Mortified.

I got updated, that my number 2 prior to leaving wasn’t as ‘down the loo’ as intended. All around the rim and the seat, it was!

Mortified.

I’m still utterly stunned.

I’m always so conscious of the act, from sound through scent to evidence, that a poo in someone else’s loo denotes an emergency. When caught short, I do everything to conceal and leave the place as I found it.

To hear my shit was noticed — mortified.

And I don’t even know how it all got there because I don’t remember things being particularly explosive. And I remember checking the loo and wiping down the seat so I don’t know what the fuck I was doing.

Setting myself up to feel mortified, clearly.

It’s been nice feeling something I haven’t felt in a while, like going on holiday. A shit holiday, of course.

Tomos James