So - it's been a loooooong week. So let's go back to last Saturday. Chester races - Roman Day.
It's hot. The hottest day of the year so far. The weather man says it's gonna be 29 degrees.
Like some sort of ancient wagon train making their way across middle america - so we set off from Sarah and Chris' house with our wagons (mountain buggy / Mclarens / Bugaboo's) laden to the max with the essentials. Beer (cold beer), ice (to ensure the continued coldness of the beer), picnic consisting of superheated tuna sandwiches (we must not waste ice on sandwiches - never!), quavers, strawberries and grapes, wine - much wine, champagne (well - why not?), beer - did I mention beer? Oh and the kids.
Fintan sits shotgun - riding on the front of the buggy with Declan crammed behind him. I stumble forward under the weight - two for a tenner deckchairs slung over my shoulder.
The wagon train wanders past a sentry post of Roman Soldiers - Fintan doesn't even bat an eyelid. We trek to the centre of the race course and like Christmas Turkey - we begin to roast.
The day is interspersed with spectacularly random bets (the jockey is Irish, the trainer is Irish, the Horse is Irish, the colours are Irish etc) and are quids down. But the highlight of the day is surely the free bouncy castle and "Velcro Olympics Assault course" for the kids. By the end of the day we manage to convince the spotty teenager in charge of safety - that it is in his best interests to let Chris and I race each other over the assault course. Four year olds gasp as two drunken idiots launch themselves at full pelt through the assault course. I nearly have him at the second hurdle - but after that - it's game over. I can only manage a pathetic treble roll out of the assault course padded tunnel and land off the side of the matts. This is a painful lesson in stupidty.
The next day I notice I have seriously sunburnt feet. I always forget the feet. Always!
The rest of the week - I am offshore again at the crack of dawn on Monday (boy those morning flights kill me!). And on my return I am the walking dead. Succombed to some sort of deadly man flu. I call the doctor on Wednesday for an appointment. The friendly receptionist informs me that there is an appointement in 2 weeks time - in June.
"I'll be dead by then! What's the point in an appointment then?" I demand angrily.
She is unimpressed. I am almost tempted to actually die just to teach her a lesson and prove my point. "There - vindicated!" I'd have on my Gravestone.
A tonne of antibiotics later and I'm getting better (I know you care!). Until today - today was rather rubbish - my chest no longer feels like I am breathing through glue - but my nose won't stop bleeding. This rather freaks Fintan as he thinks he has trodden in it (it's all over the floor). Lucky for me my wife is an expert in this sort of emergency.
"Stick your head back and it will stop". An hour later I am drowning in a constant flow of blood down my throat.
"On no - sorry - try sitting forward and pinching your nose - maybe that was it".
Ahhh - what joys does tomorrow hold? Self lobotomisation? Death by Umbongo? Who knows. Who knows...
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