Meanwhile my first-best girl is unashamedly eyeing up some 'sexy' Spaniard at the pool. He was apparently doing stretches on the side of the pool but L had to swim very slowly past doing breaststroke to notice that. She says she’s old enough to be his mother but young enough to stare, which is the sort of thing I’d come out with. Wait until I get her home.
Lunch comes courtesy of a very small, very expensive sandwich from Starbucks as my usual venue of choice (through lack of choice) for crap sandwiches, Greggs, is shut for a refit. Quite what they can do differently there I don’t really know.
I attempt to do a few beat boxes on my way home from work but I’m not confident it won't end in disaster. I don’t puncture this time and I cycle an extra 10km, visiting 12 beat boxes of which 8 acknowledge my presence. The rest are all flat. I meet a fellow cyclist who is doing what I had hoped to do by visiting every one but he’s now resorted to marking them off with pen and paper such is the number of ones that no longer work.
When I get home I find that just 2 of the 12 have registered on the website scoring me a massive ten points rather than the expected 110. L has had a similarly frustrating quest. We both Facebook the box people to complain, well not really complain, just to let them know about the problems there are. It’s a great idea and hopefully if it comes back next year they’ll have ironed all these problems out.
L has her ball. The Poundshop had a choice of either Superman or Pink Princess. Naturally she went pink, not that that will make much difference to its chances of ending up in the garden.
(Friday 13th May)