On this chilly Saturday morning, I sit sprawled in a garden chair in an English back garden in the middle of Sidcup, listening to foreign animals click and chirp while I deliberate over The Cockney's impending death.
On holiday it's typical to lose out on precious hours of sleep, but since arriving in England and travelling through Paris, I've had less than six hours per night. Ordinarily this wouldn't bother me, but since every day has been crammed with a plethora of activities that include needing to schedule in a fart--I'm knackered.
This morning I planned a luxurious sleep-in which was consequently thwarted by The Cockney's exuberant nostril orchestra. Never in my life have I been that close to a freight train and yet this morning one rolled directly on top of me. Blissful hours of sleep were robbed from this innocent victim who was without earplugs or apology. Thus, I now sit in this overly-green garden, eyeing off the children's tree-house in the corner, fantasizing about whether or not a bed will fit in its wooden hull.
So, after establishing that my shoulders don't fit through the hatch of the tree-house, I figured I'd exercise to shake off my weariness.
Thirty minutes later I have indulged in approximately fifteen unscheduled farts, swallowed some sort of flying insect, almost wet myself after a jumping-jack went slightly wrong and managed to kick my toe on a garden paver.
Upside? I found a shovel in the garden shed that should fit nicely wrapped around The Cockney's head when he finally wakes up ...

Kristy ;)