Strops, that does NOT ROCK. What a pain in the parts. And MI - BTM is right, it will all work out in the end, but all the wondering and worrying is very wearing.
Here we still are in North Norfolk, escaping the builders. The cottage is miniscule, with tiny furniture, but is spotlessly clean, and has a functioning kitchen, complete with washer/dryer in which we have cleaned all our clothes for the return. DS is in a proper bed for the first time, and is celebrating by coming into our bed most nights, and wriggling so much one of us has to give up and to into his bed.
S&B-wise it's all classy Barbours and Dubarry boots round here, with expensive-looking jumpers and an air of insouciance, as they mount their dirty 4x4s. Feel a right pleb. But it's spurred me on to buy a pair of proper, waterproof, grippy Merrell boots from Secret Sales for future bracing walks, or even just negotiating icy London pavements. They're my birthday present to myself.
Talking of which, we spent today trying to entertain DS in the Hunstanton sea life sanctuary. Hunstanton has to be the bleakest place on the planet, with acres of windswept concrete, closed-down amusement arcades, and desolate caravan parks. Just deathly. And DS utterly uninterested in marine life, preferring to sing his repertoire of 45 songs on a loop. That's £33 well spent, then. But we did swing by the utterly absurd Burnham Market on the way home for a cake.