:: poooooor bertie, part 843

He really is miserable this time. When I collected him from the vet yesterday morning he was extremely pleased to see me (and the receptionist, and the two other people in the waiting room, and their pet - "Oooo, cat-in-a-box! For me? You shouldn't have..."). I wasn't so happy to hear that they'd X-rayed his other foot and discovered that there is a "foreign body" in his pad, which will therefore have to be sliced open under a general anaesthetic. So we hobbled off home. As soon as he got in he drank about a litre of water, then rushed outside for a poo, so I gather he didn't have a great time on his sleepover.

Just after I got home, my next-door neighbour popped over with a parcel that had been delivered the night before while I was at work. It was my coffee maker! The back story to this momentous delivery is that I've been hankering for a coffee maker for some time, but have been dithering. I want one that takes paper filters, because I think paper-filtered coffee tastes better and is better for you, but they're quite hard to find. I ordered one through Tesco last month. Over the weeks I phoned a few times to see what was happening and was always told it would be with me soon. Finally, last week they admitted they didn't have any. So I ordered another one from John Lewis, my favourite department store. And here it was! At last!

But (you knew there was a but coming, I'm sure) after I'd hauled it out of its box and assembled it, there seemed to be something amiss. I consulted the manual, and sure enough, that flap at the back should have been fixed on, not sliding around loose. Sigh. I got my battered old Melitta one-cup filter holder back out of the cupboard.

Luckily John Lewis is ferociously efficient, so with one short phone call while the kettle boiled I'd organised the collection of the faulty machine and the delivery of a new one. They're coming tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow is my day off, and here's how it's shaping up so far: 10am, take Bertie to the vet. Noon-4pm: Wait for John Lewis to collect broken coffee maker. At some point, go into town to buy another "doggie boot" to protect second bandaged foot on walks. 5pm: Collect Bertie from vet.

I'd love to go out tomorrow night, but Bertie will be in a very bad way, with both front feet in bandages, both with stitches, owww, owww. So I'd better stay in and hold his paw. Greyhounds take a long time to recover from anaesthetics, so he'll probably be very groggy too. Poor old fellow.

Last night I went to a great party, my friend Colin's wedding reception. It was in Aberdour, so I got the train along with John from work and his wife Penny. I haven't seen Colin's family for ages and it was brilliant to catch up with them. His parents are great fun. Jean greeted me with a big hug, and Sandy told me blurrily how grateful he was for the sacrifice all those Kiwis and Aussies made during the Second World War (he's an ex-Marine). He also confessed that he'd made a hideous blunder in his speech, calling Colin's bride "Jenny" twice, when she's actually Jillian. Jenny is Colin's previous girlfriend. Oops. Poor Sandy. Colin's sisters are also wonderful, Tasha in particular. There were loads of kids there, the boys mostly in kilts and the girls in pretty party frocks, and they had a fab time dancing and running around. The reception featured a great little ceilidh band, and I got up and danced a few times myself. Then we had stovies, a great Scottish tradition, and after a lot more drinking and laughing and hugging, we wobbled off back to the station to catch the last train, along with another couple. Colin is very happy - Jillian has three children already (lovely kids) and they've another on the way.

In keeping with the cross-grained patch I'm going through there was a glitch, but not a major one - I managed to leave my purse behind. But the Dalmeny ticket office was closed, I wasn't asked for my fare on either train, and John loaned me £20 so I could get in my round of drinks.

Today I slept until 1am, a combination of alcohol and a sleep deficit after several days of having to get up early. I feel a bit hungover but not too bad, and work hasn't been too complicated or stressful (touch wood - still a few hours to go).

However, I was a bit disturbed to read my horoscope in today's Observer:

Sagittarius
22 Nov-21 Dec
Calibrate your computer and clear your desk. The apparent motion of Mercury, messenger of the gods, will be backwards from Tuesday, a sure cue for your keys to get lost and your cell phone to die. The mess is only for three weeks, however. Happily, your personal planet, Jupiter, is dazzlingly aspected, meaning you get to be the cheery one when things go wrong. Friends? Galore. Romance? Strictly private.

"The mess is only for three weeks" - aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrggggghhhh.

:: bertie's birthday

Yesterday (my birthday) began with a trip to the vet. Bertie's still limping on his cut pad and the vet thinks there may be something in there, because it's otherwise healing up ok. After that I took him for a walk and made some phone calls and did some other stuff. Bertie went out in the garden and dug a hole under the hedge, so I yelled at him. He came mooching back in -- and shortly after that I found big bloody footprints everywhere. Uh oh. I followed the trail and found him licking a big deep gash in his "ankle". Not on his hurt leg, of course, on the other front one.

I bandaged him up, but then had to go to work not long after his double-limping afternoon walk. While at work I made an appointment for the vet for this morning. When I got home the bandage was blood-soaked, so I redid it, and again after his walk because it got wet. This morning the cut had at least stopped bleeding - but the vet says it needs stitches. Argh! He's going to be sedated for that, so while he's woozy they'll X-ray the other foot, see if that shows anything. He'd have to have a general anaesthetic if they have to cut it open. Because the surgery is in Linlithgow and I'll be at work, he has to stay overnight - so I just left him there. Poooooor Bertie. It's his favourite vet though, so perhaps he'll enjoy having some special time with her.

So - a dogless day! Guilty pleasure - normally I have to organise a good part of the day around Bertie's walks and toilet breaks, so it's quite pleasant to be able to, say, have a shopping trip or a nice lunch out. I might leave for work early and go to the gardens.

Right now though, I'm going to clean up this tip a little and try finishing the bath seal. Oh, and I'll have a look in the garden and see if I can find whatever it was Bertie cut his leg on.

:: diy day

I'm knackered, and I haven't finished yet. This morning (OK afternoon -- I didn't get up early) the plan was to do the sealant thing on the bath. I thought that as the washers on the taps were clearly on their last gasp (not leaking but having to be turned off tight so they wouldn't leak) I might as well change them while I was about it. These are large, elderly taps, so I didn't think it would be easy. And it wasn't.

A couple of hours after starting, I was sitting on the edge of the tub in a fog of DW40, with every single tool in my possession strewn around the floor, clutching one filthy hand in another as the blood flowed from a gash in my left thumb caused by the screwdriver I was using to try and prise the old washer out from under a very stuck nut. The nut was so firmly jammed that I had to carve the hardened washer out so I could get WD40 into the screw and loosen it. It took another hour after that point. While the WD40 was doing its magic (every joint in both taps was stuck) I rewired the light fittings in the downstairs hallway because they've been blowing bulbs too quickly. No, I'm not on drugs. I could have done with drugs, trust me.

Finally, finally, the nut came free. I jammed the new washer on, reassembled the tap and turned the water back on. Fresh water gushing into the header tank stirred up the gunk, so the first trickle through the taps was lurid orange, but still -- new washers! Fab. After a quick scrub round, rebandaging and tidy-up I started to strip off the old silicone seal around the tub, but realised that a) I was starving and b) it was after 5pm and I hadn't walked Bertie. I collected him and was just about out the door when Faye rang.

While talking to her, I realised that I could still hear the header tank filling. Surely it should be full by now ... She could hear it too, it was so loud. What the...

Then, still talking to Faye, I found the culprit. One of the low points of the day, apart from stabbing myself with the screwdriver, came when I went to the toilet midway through the whole episode. I squirted out a lot of liquid soap and (duuuuuhhhh) turned on the tap. No water, dummy! You turned it off, remember? I had to wipe the soap off with toilet paper. Second duuuhhh was that I forgot to turn the tap off. It was running now ... uhhhnnnn...

Anyhoo, I've had a nice bit of steak and am somewhat restored. I'm just going to have a quick clear-out and put the rubbish bin out and then get stuck in to resealing the bath.

Amusing suggestion on the instructions for the sealant tape: if it's for around a bath, then fill the tub to its normal level before applying sealant. But be careful not to get anything wet...

:: new view

Off to IKEA today for ... what? I can't even remember what I had in mind when I went. With IKEA it doesn't matter what you go there for, you end up with dozens of things you never intended to buy, because it's all so cheap and cleverly designed. So, what I got was a pair of curtains, a curtain rail & fittings, a computer desk, some skirt hangers, a bottle of mineral oil for the chopping boards and a new dishwashing brush. I wanted to get some doors for one of my existing bookcases but they didn't have them in stock. Then I went to the DIY shop for some sealant to fix the shower leak.

Since I got back I've put up the curtain rail and hung the curtains (though I'll have to take them down again because they're about two feet too long) and moved my computer downstairs. The new table is actually called a Journalist, heh. It's smaller than the one upstairs (which becomes the sewing table) but big enough for everything. I want to try having my computer downstairs to see if I use it more -- I think I will.

This morning I got up early and took Bertie to the vet. He's been limping really badly and looking so morose I felt guilty. But the vet prodded and poked and said it looks fine. She didn't bother putting a bandage on it, just gave him some antibiotics, just in case. So he must be swinging the lead. She did suggest soaking his foot in salty water ... yeah right. I can just imagine him standing patiently with his foot in a bucket for ten minutes. He's still limping as if his leg is broken.

Right now I'm going to have a nice cup of tea! I'm knackered.

:: meanwhile ...

... back in the real world (as opposed to holiday world), I'm going through a slightly frustrating bumpy patch.

First there was the mysterious puddle that appeared on the kitchen floor every time I had a shower (gap between bath and wall identified as culprit); then one of the car's tyre's sprang a slow leak (new shoes for one lucky car!). The annoying-breakdown rate seems to have speeded up this past week though: Bertie cut his foot on some broken glass the other day, and today as I was tending to him, I caught the cord of the headphones of my radio on the doorknob and ripped them apart. Wah! The car's engine coolant is emptying out at a rapid rate, which no doubt means a cracked pipe or something. And while buying a book and a CD on Amazon to cheer myself up, I managed to have them delivered to Norway. I noticed the mistake right away, but due to various gremlins couldn't put it right. Amazon couldn't put it right either, not even when the parcel was still in the building, as it were. I even emailed the Norwegian post office, but they can't put it right. So I just have to rely on the people who now live in Anthea's old flat to be honest and return the parcel to sender.

My philosophy has been Stoical: to just slog through the practicalities of putting things right and not get dragged down into negativity. Reasons to be cheerful! Etc.

Poor Bertie is not cheerful, however. He's miz. I decided to try and get his paw healed up at home, thus avoiding the horror of trying to keep an expensive bandage dry and clean in the wet and mire of late autumn. The cut was doing pretty well until this morning, when he took off in a giddy sprint and it broke open again. Limp, limp, limp. We might have to limp along to the vet after all. I'll try putting a sock on it for walks, see how that goes.

:: To Bilbao and Back Again

The Basque name for Bilbao is Bilbo; and at times we did feel like plucky hobbits, battling seemingly insurmountable odds to reach our glittering goal: the Guggenheim.

Once upon a time (7 October, 2004, to be exact) Pinky and I decided it would be a jolly good idea to go to Bilbao by train. We had arrived in Biarritz the day before, after a long and stressful journey from Lourdes. We'd found a cheap, comfortable hotel and were put off the idea of driving in Spain by the grim warnings of our guide books. So we thought we'd go to San Sebastian by train in the morning, and to Bilbao -- and the Guggenheim -- the following day.

So we set off to the railway station, where we discovered that our dilatory ways meant we had missed the connection for San Sebastian -- there wouldn't be another train until the afternoon. We decided to go the next day, and the kind man wrote down the times for us.

I'll digress here to explain that although Biarritz and Bilbao are not a million miles apart (72 miles/116km, to be exact) and San Sebastian is even closer, they are, as the man in the Biarritz railway station emphasised, in another country. You can't just get on a train in Biarritz and go to San Sebastian. You have to get off the French train at Hendaye and get on a Spanish train. So we had quite a complicated little list of train times.

After a pleasant day spent doing laundry, e-mailing and eating (a sensational dinner in particular), we were rested and ready for Spain. We set out for the station at 9am, giving ourselves plenty of time for timetable queries: we were going to Bilbao now, skipping San Sebastian.

The ticket office was closed. The ticket office staff were on strike. Uh oh.
We asked around the many other fretting passengers and figured out which platform our hoped-for train would arrive at. And so it did, only a little late. Hurrah! We climbed aboard and got off at Hendaye.

No, no, said Jojo at the Hendaye information desk. You can't get a train to Bilbao from Hendaye. For that you need to go to Irun. We recognised the name Irun from the train we'd just left. That's where it was going after Hendaye. OK, so when is the next train to Irun? Not until the afternoon. Why aren't there trains to Bilbao? You guessed it ... "It's in another country." But the man gave us these train times - we pulled out the nice Biarritz man's list - see, you can go to San Sebastian from here ... Well yes, said Jojo, there is a little train over there ... he waved dismissively ... but it's Spanish.

We went out the door he'd indicated and sure enough, there was a little ticket window marked Tren Vasco. We inquired. Yes, there was a train going soon to San Sebastian. From there we could get a bus to Bilbao, it was quicker than the train. We bought tickets and boarded the Tren. It was a very cute little Tren. It stopped at every single station. It took a very long time to go a very short distance. But eventually we got to San Sebastian. There was a moment of confusion among the foreigners because the station was called something else (it wasn't the main station), but we all got out all right.

Now we just had to find the bus station. We asked at the information counter and were pointed down the road. It wasn't far. We spotted a bus with Bilbao on it and tried to board, but were flapped away by the driver, who directed us to the bus office, back down the road to the station. So we plodded back down, stood in a queue for a while and bought tickets. We had some time in hand, so shot off to a nearby cafe for sustenance - coffee and a bocadilla, or filled roll - for the journey.

Back at the bus station confusion reigned. There wasn't just one bus to Bilbao, there were two. Which one to get on? We handed our tickets to a driver, who checked them, tore off the stubs and waved us on board. We fell gratefully into seats near the front. But what's this? A large Spanish woman laden with bags waved her ticket at us and pointed above our heads. Oh. We were in her seat. The tickets were numbered. We hauled ourselves out and back up the bus to the right seats. Whew. No sooner were we settled than another large Spaniard was standing there, waving and pointing. Eh? We were on the wrong bus! Argh. We climbed down and got the driver to go through his stubs to retrieve ours (all in sign language), then clambered back on the right bus and finally, seconds before departure, sat down in our appointed seats.

It was quite sad to see nothing of San Sebastian but the bus station and a quick glimpse from the highway; everyone I've talked to who's been there has raved about it. Oh well. Another time.

Pinky, in the window seat, said very firmly that we'd made the right decision to go by bus - judging by the speed at which we were overtaking everything. The scenery was dramatic and strange: steep, wooded hills, rising on our left to the Pyranees, with seemingly every valley filled densely with factories and high-rise blocks of flats. Now and then we caught flashes of the sea.

After a couple of hours we arrived in Bilbao. Entering the city was quite dramatic: the motorway off-ramp curves around past tall blocks of flats, many of which had banners hanging from their balconies. Consulting our dictionaries we think it was a complaint about the noise. No wonder, with three lanes of traffic speeding past their livingrooms.

Bilbao bus station is a work in progress - bulldozers, potholes, chaos. We could see a gleaming tram stop and we'd read about the state-of-the-art system, but we hurried for the taxi rank, tired beyond belief of public transport. Take us to the Guggenheim, and step on it! It was wonderful to be whisked straight there with no hassle.

And there it was, the wonderful gallery, glistening like a spaceship that's just stopped off to refuel. And there was Jeff Koons' Puppy, huge and blooming lovely. We had a happy few hours wandering the place, marvelling at every single thing. The huge exhibition spaces, the vast canvases (Jim Rosenquist, Bill Viola - fantastic), the monumental sculptures. We had a late lunch in the gallery cafe and sat around outside for a while enjoying watching the children playing in the fountain. Then it was time to go back to Biarritz.

We took the tram back to the bus station and yes, it is state of the art, clean and quick. We had decided to be clever and get the bus all the way back to Irun. We couldn't get a bus to Hendaye, of course, because - all together now - "it's in another country". So Irun it was. Each destination had its own ticket office and its own queue. The queue for Irun was so loooooooooooong it had two ticket offices. Both with looooooooooong queues. We queued. For a very loooooong time. Finally we had tickets. Now, where was the bus? The station was boiling with people, all either queuing for tickets or outside a bus, or rushing around looking confused and panicky. We were in the latter category. Finally we found the right stand and went back to queuing. At last, at looooooong last we got on the bus and were off.

After a couple of hours, we arrived in Irun. I had been slightly fearful of finding that the Irun bus station was miles from the Irun railway station, but in fact they were right next to each other. Phew! Now all we had to do was get on a train and we'd be in Biarritz.

Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!!

No, said the man in the ticket office. There's no train to Biarritz. And there's nothing to Hendaye, either. "It's another country," he explained. This is where things got a bit murky. There was a mini-bus that could take us to Hendaye, but it would cost us 100 euros, 50 euros each. If we were going somewhere in Spain, obviously it wouldn't cost as much, but to cross the border - well, it's another country. While we were arguing with him ("100 euros? are you insane?") another man was waiting who spoke both English and Spanish. "I might be able to help you, I don't know," he said. I don't know if he actually said anything harsh to Senor Ticket, but at the very least he let it be known that he was bilingual. And when we started yelling at Senor Ticket again, he'd changed his tune. There was a taxi stand, we could try getting a taxi to Hendaye. He waved us off. There was no mention of a mini-bus.

Hmmm.

So we went to the taxi stand and asked how much to go to Hendaye. "Eleven euros."

Five minutes later we were there. No border guards, no border at all, as far as we could see. "Oh, the railway station," said the taxi driver. "In that case it's only ten euros. See?" He showed us his laminated list of fares. Bargain!

We headed in to the station, finally in France, and finally on the last leg. There was a looooooong queue at the ticket office. The time showing on the departure board for the Paris train matched that of the last train from Hendaye to Biarritz, on the piece of paper given to us the day before. We had ten minutes, obviously not long enough to join that queue. We turned to the automatic ticketing machine. It wouldn't take our cards. We didn't have quite enough change. We raced around begging people to change notes. At last we had enough coins. The machine spat out tickets. We hurried along to the platform and presented the tickets to the guard. He glanced at them and said to a colleague (in French, naturellement): "This train doesn't stop at Biarritz, does it?"

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggghhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Yes, it does," said the colleague calmly, not realising how close we were to going postal on her ass.

It was a sleeper, and the seats-only carriage was right up the front of the train, a very long walk. We climbed on. We found seats. We sat down. And wouldn't you know it, here came a Spanish woman, waving her ticket and pointing. We were in their seats. Wearily, we dragged ourselves up. There was a sudden flurry, a thump, and I turned to see Pinky slumped in her seat, apparently unconscious. In front of me another woman stood frozen, a large case in her hands. She'd been putting it in the overhead rack and it had slipped and hit Pinky on the head! Everyone except the perp rushed to the pink one's aid. She came round and was thankfully unharmed. I gave the offender a very harsh look, and she said "perdon" in a grudging manner.

We shuffled down the other end of the carriage and found other seats and the rest of the trip was hassle-free. We got to Biarritz station at about 11pm and I phoned a taxi.

The driver was surly and uncommunicative, but we didn't care. He drove at about 150kph through city streets but we didn't care about that either (as Pinky said, it saved us putting seatbelts on; the g-force kept us pinned to our seats). We were back at the hotel in a flash.

The ordeal was over.

:: holiday snaps

Who's that smoking a cigarette? A glamorous Frenchwoman in the Zen cafe, Rue de Seine. I smoked a few ciggies too - but they were menthol and that doesn't count. I still have the packet, in fact; Pinky was going to throw it out but I snaffled it. It has a great health warning in giant letters: "Fumer tue" - smoking kills. Yeah, whatever.  



Champagne in Les Deux Magots. At the next table, Aurelians discuss alien cloning techniques. Or something. 


Our Metro station. 


Pinky at Notre Dame de Paris. 


Segway! Segway! Everybody Segway!   The Segway tour was mega-fun, even better fun than I'd imagined. Everyone should do it.



The journey of 1,000 miles begins with a single step... 




Daniella keeps Pinky on the straight and, like, totally narrow. 



Concentrate, concentrate. 


We passed all our tests! We are good to go! 


Too much Segway fun is bad for your health, apparently. 


Pausing for thought. 


Brmmmm, brmmm ... bonjour Paree! 


Happy face is good. To start, press the round metal thingie on the yellow plastic thingie on to the round black thingie on the left. And then just lean forward... 


Brrrmmmm, brrmmmmm -- you have to make your own noises; Segway is silent running.  


Daniella tells us some history. "So, like, the Vikings were totally harrassing the Pareezhans..." 


"Stop stunt-riding! You'll run your batteries down!" Nah, Daniella was way kewl. 



Here we are out on the road, waiting for a recycling bin to be emptied. 


Another Segway pic.  


Pinky en bateau.  


French traffic from the top of the Arc de Triomphe. The man in the white coat is a police officer. He wandered out into the traffic blowing his whistle and singled out the car apparently at random. The driver of the little blue car and the bigger car round the corner had previously been stopped and interrogated at length. Note lack of road markings. Scary. 


Pere Lachaise cemetery. 


Pinky joins other mourners at Oscar Wilde's graveside. People were writing quite elaborate notes.  Unfortunately some of the madder fans have kind of ruined it for everyone else - the ugly fence is there to stop people getting lipstick on the angel sculpture (an Epstein, which has famously been castrated - a crabby note posted by the cemetery officials says it's not true that the director keeps the genitals on his desk as a paperweight).


It was a poignant moment for our Pinks.  


I like cemeteries, and this one was a doozy. My favourite tomb: dead man suddenly remembers he forgot to turn off the stove. 



After Paris we got the train to Bordeaux, where we hired a car and drove out into the gorgeous countryside. We had a pique-nique at this idyllic spot. 



Les Eyzies, a lovely riverside town with fabulous cliffs and home to the museum of prehistory.  


Conduirant a droite. C'est facile! 


The farm we stayed on had a sweeping view of the surrounding hills, valleys and forests. And the chicken run. 


Sarlat. I think. Lovely, anyway. 


The farm again. It was a great place.  


This was in Montignac, yet another lovely little town. We had a delicious lunch, followed by cakes from the local bakery. YUM. 


Back in Les Eyzies. 


A view of Les Eyzies from the museum, which was a strikingly modern building. 


Pinky takes in the view at Les Eyzies. 


Le Cro-Mignon! The only French pun I saw, and quite a good one too. Les Eyzies. 


Baby geese, soon to become foie gras. We stopped at this farm to buy pate etc, and ended up getting quite a bit of stuff. As the woman was taking my money and bagging my rillettes and walnut oil, Pinky discovered a book of photos of foie gras production. They really do force-feed the geese with funnels. And oh, who would have guessed their innards look like that! I'm ashamed to say I didn't fling my purchases down and demand a refund. We snuck out and drove away, leaving the cute little goslings to their fate.  


Umm... chateau en route to Rocamadur. Not sure.  


Rocamadur -- Templar stronghold. Also where we noticed the wing mirror/indicator was broken. Spent the rest of the holiday with an 800 euro excess hanging over our heads. Weeks later the car hire firm finally got around to getting it fixed and charged me just under £14.  


Lourdes from the church. 


The miraculous grotto, where Bernadette had her visions of the virgin. Pinky is at the extreme left, queueing to go in.  


Snack break for the faithful at Lourdes. 


Tat-tastic at Lourdes.  


Pinky checks out the story of Bernadette at a Lourdes gift shop. 


People heading for the basilica. Lourdes is a model of wheelchair accessible town planning. 


The church at Lourdes. 


Biarritz. We have breakfast with Lakme, the French bulldog, who has her own seat at the cafe. 


The seafront at Biarritz. It looks chilly but it wasn't, it was balmy.  


Biarritz is a surfer town. 


I loved Biarritz, I'd like to go back there for a week. Beautiful coastline, nice ambience. 


The little cove around the corner from the main beach. Yes, people were swimming in the sea in October.  


Pinky and Puppy at the Guggenheim, Bilbao. How we got there and back is a long story - see the next post. Bilbao is in another country.  


Inside the Guggenheim. What a fantastic building. 


A holographic cube outside the gallery. 


The Guggenheim, Bilbao. 


The coast between Biarritz and Bordeaux. Two guys are kite-surfing. 


We ride the Belle Epoque bus in Bordeaux. A great city. 


The Belle Epoque bus, Bordeaux. 


After Bordeaux, Paris. After Paris, Oxford. It was raining. 


Blenheim Palace. 


A little train! Blenheim was fun. 


"Take a picture of me cooking on an Aga!" said Pinky. So I did. Our first B&B. 


This is for Pinky's friend of the same name. 


Our Oxford walking tour was conducted by scatty Ursula, from Chermany. "Vell, that's a werry goot qvestion, and I vill answer it in a few minutes..."  


Sisters reunited in Oxford. 


Stuffing our faces with an excellent meal at the Loch Fyne Restaurant in Henley on Thames. Thanks very much, Mum!