The Tots do Cumbria

After a long silence (and apologies to those loyal readers who felt they had been left down), mainly due to my bad, bad habit of leaving everything to the last minute, hence having to scribble a 10k words dissertation in just about 2 hours, then buggering off to Spain, I return to my beloved web-log with more tales of totty wonder. This time, for everyone's delight, I shall post a couple of images from my recent romping in the lovely northern district, which gave us lots of lakes, a few depressed poets, and of course Lady Vestibule Tots: Cumbria.

So, it all started more or less like this:



This is of course an image from last week, when Lady V was roaming the festive streets of Notting Hill, not to partake in the Carnival celebrations, but to down a bottle or so of Jegermeister in the (hopefully successful attempt) to dump a rather pesky creature out of her life.

So we leave on Saturday morning, armed with coffee, croissants and a lengthy amount of catching-up to do, and before long we are stepping onto a platform, greeted by Mother V, who recklessly drives us (a family trait, it seems) to the ancestral home. There, seated in large chairs surrounded by majestic scenery is Father V, and a handful of French cousins/aunts/uncles who seem to move in tight packs and speak a charmingly appalling English.

Naturally, a game of boule is preceded by a couple of large G&Ts.



The day progresses between hearty walks and debauched drinking sessions, and I begin to understand where our beloved Lady V gets some of her confused life-approaches from. This was taken by the lake, the holy trinity in all its glory:



But this is nothing compared to my second day, where even more reckless driving brings us noneother than to the house of the Almighty, where for the first time in 15 years I find myself kneeling at an altar receiving blessing from a priest (in fact, Father V himself, only in a skirt). I blame the alcohol of the previous evening, the roaring hangover, and Lady V's terrible influence. I leave the church wondering if my own mother will be happy for my religious experience, or upset because I sold out to the Protestants. I decide not to mention the incident altogether.

The day descends into an orgy of booze and organised fun: spoon and Scotch-egg races, leek-tossing competitions, photographic treasure hunts, activities that all children seem to adore, together with a large handful of over-enthusiastic adults, while we - in our condescending urban disdain - avoid like plague.

To the extent of hiding behind a sofa to avoid being dragged outside in the miserable weather to perform like circus monkeys.

Instead, we decide to steal children's toys and rehears our favourite activity: corrupting the youth...





Oh, well... what else can I say except that we gave DAMN GOOD totty...