Wet, wet and uh wet

The weather in England is so unpredictable. Well, any local could tell you that. But me, myself and I are so unbelieving, we need it to be proved without a shadow of doubt that what they say about its unpredictability is in fact true before I take it as truth.

Its true.

From just days ago wearing shorts, I scampered back into my woolies, namely my tried and true guernsey– a gorgeously handmade jumper – uh sweater– with all the stitching telling a sailor's tale. To coin Timex, "it takes a lickin' but keeps on tickin'." An expensive investment for me, but it has paid off several times over with the amount of usage its gotten. It looks brand new even after five years of incredible abuse.

Saturday for example, started out promising— lovely and sunny. Then we decided to go to Felixstowe. Apparently the clouds heard this so they started to gather. However we've learned not to let that put a damper on things. So my trusty companion– my husband– and I ventured off to the seaside town of Felixstowe— the premier port in England I'm told by all the signs upon entry.

Surprisingly finding a parking spot right on the main drag, we immediately went to the chip shop and grabbed us a bag a'chips– de rigueur if you're to take a looooong stroll along the boardwalk. Hell, it wouldn't be Felixstowe if you didn't have a bag a'chips.

Also let me be the first (of many) to dispel the myth of chips being served in newspaper. They are not served in newspaper– well not anymore I'm told. Because I am no longer a virginal chippy, I can meticulously report that they do not come in printed newsprint paper, but do come in newsprint nonetheless. The printed newspaper parts are used to hold it after the grease has gone through the unprinted part. Get it? Its also an unfortunate reality that because of this preponderance of grease, some chippies have gone to the dreaded stirofoam container.

But that's another soapbox.

I have to admit, I've become an every so often devotee of the English french-fry. Forget Micky D's– ya just can't beat these delicately chucked and fried spuds. Some people are so well versed in Chippology that they can tell you if its an old spud, a new one, whether it was produce in the whatever-region, or one that was well-we-won't-go-there-but-still-edible-one just by looking at it. Cholesterolically speaking (yes my word), I also like to tell myself that a looooooong walk whilst devouring them will undo some of the damage you know these fat-vat fried beauties do.

"Lotsa vinegar – oh– and a side'a statins please."

During our boardwalk stroll, the clouds continued to threaten but only pathetically spit. The wind (and I'm not talkin' about my husband's) was another story. Needless to say, my guernsey was held close. I think I even used some of my husband's. Still, the hour walk was briskly leisure and energizing. I'd earned my guernsey stripes that day.

On a sidenote (yes tangent), I've decided that once my husband retires and becomes a man of leisure, I will put him to an additional use and book him as the local rainman. Well not locally really – I thought more like Ethiopia, or the Sahara– places were it seldom rains but could use a few drops. If my husband goes there, it will surely rain. It has so far– in every port of call. And I ain't kiddin'.

Sunday was moderately better. The day– as most days– started out clear, blue and comparatively warm. So we decided to check out the Caravan Club we've booked for late June in Cromer (yes, this city girl camps now). So off to Norfolk we and our guernseys went...and so did the clouds. Ironically (and I say that optimistically), the clouds did follow us again, but surprisingly didn't produce. Even better, upon crossing a few millimeters over the Norfolk county line, it miraculously cleared.

Is the curse broken?

I'll tell ya in June.