Hello.
Before I begin, I feel like I should apologise. I realise that, present within you, there is the possibility for the festering of two emotions. One of those is relief. Relief because, after months of waiting, you finally get to see the product of my nonsensical keyboard bashing. Therefore I am sorry that I kept you waiting so long. Of course, it might be more likely that right now you are curled up on the floor, wailing in despair at my sudden reappearance in the masses of blogs of little note being produced each day. To you, I rescind my apology. If it is so bad then just stop reading you cretin. Bizarre introduction over, here is what happened on my awkwardly awesome holiday....
A speedy getaway from Chepstow with little time to spare left us gasping for breath in the shadow of the ferry about to consume the three helpless figures smoking in front of it. The recently retired driver, Andrew Steel, pranced about amongst other potential tourists enjoying the feel of stretched legs and attempted to divert his guilty cigarette from influencing the lungs of tiny pre-adulted beings. A short, skinny, bearded child climbed out of the vehicle minutes afterwards. Hang on one second, that is no child! It is Andrew's good friend and confidant, Robert Lynn Harries Jones, the sarcastic backbone of the trip begged his significantly larger pal for a similar instrument of fiery, poisonous relief. Within the minuscule purple automobile that would serve them so well in the week and a bit to come sat the blonde spectre of one Chloe Boulton. The very near future would see her spurt many a word of wisdom while she struggled with the unassuming and horrendous demands of the festival-goer who decides to over do it.
Then they got on the ferry....
Next time: In Bruges.
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