...and no sooner home than away again

By Monday, Martyn's cold had really got into its swing: I've never known him get such a bad one, and hope he caught it from the sniffles I've had.  He spent a lot of Monday in bed.  Fortunately he was in better shape on Tuesday for our booze cruise - Eurotunnel was doing a day return for £23, so we treated ourselves and friends to a trip.  The friends in turn treated us to a copious lunch at Cap Gris Nez, whence we had fine views of the Dover cliffs in the changing light of a blustery day.

Bit of a cheap shot, sniggering at perfectly respectable place names, but I'll allow myself this one.  Oh, what the hell: Bern boasts a suburb called Wankdorf, Bavaria rejoices in Aching and Attaching, and I'll refrain from citing the celebrated -ing across the border in Austria.  We pass the road end for Poncy on our way south through the Auvergne.

 The ride home was pretty good.  We decided we'd try to get away a bit early since we'd done our shopping and it was eye-wateringly cold, hence not going-for-a-stroll weather.  Having bought a supposedly no-amendments cheapo trip, it was nice to find that the computer said 'yes' to a departure an hour ahead of the one we'd booked.  Well, we'd have caught it if we hadn't been in the UK Border Agency queue that was manned by cussed little pipsqueak who was determined to keep everyone waiting.  The other queues were zipping through.  Usually, the Border Agency people are really nice and move things briskly along.  Our man was plainly having a bad day, but we did get a crossing half an hour earlier than we'd expected. 

Since then, a day at the hobby, an art class which I left a touch happier than I entered, laundry, cooking, baking, chasing the double payment for Gatwick parking - usual stuff.