A POOTLE TO PETWORTH //

IMG_6881I’ve been a fairly miserable being this weekend/ for the last month. Can you tell?

The pinnacle of misery was reached on Saturday afternoon; huddled by the heater on the kitchen floor in my wellies, lycra and long polka dot socks (a sexy visual if ever there was one), I counted the days it had been since I’d last had fun. Since I’d last lived life as a young one.

Forty-five days it had been. Forty-five.

The two hours of arse-scratchingly boring circuits that morning had done little to lighten my mood and the non-event of a day turned into a blanket, sofa, Take Me Out write-off.

IMG_6878IMG_6880And so, as I thumped down the stairs this morning, the Mothership boldly suggested we take a pootle to Petworth in Sussex. I bloomin’ love Petworth and frankly, anything that means we’re not sat shivering in this dark, depressing baltic excuse of a building is totes cool with me.

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We kicked off proceedings in Petworth House– well, the gift shop. The house was closed, alright? I bought a beaut of a jug- a steal at £6 in the sale- and now have it stashed away until Mother’s Day when we’ll pretend “Mum, would you like this?” never happened. Some squishy, leather armchairs in the cafe was our next calling. We like a cultural day out do the Mother and I…

A mug of the frothy stuff in hand, we had a chinwagga wag about life before a bitterly cold wander around Petworth itself. We popped our heads around the door of The Hungry Guest (crackers prices but the most stupendous branding) and fell into their coffee shoppy up the road moments later, lured by the promise of more froth.

IMG_6885IMG_6894Further discussion entailed- matters of a deep nature, such as whether my face was looking thinner etc- before we made our way back, narrowly avoiding being run over by a mad man in a van, for a brief wander of the grounds.

IMG_6903A lovely little day out it was. You’ve got to be grateful for Mums and their capacity to listen to and appear interested in endless hours (in my case, probably years) of life woes.

And their unconditional love of messes sat on kitchen floors in wellies, lycra and long polka dot socks.

Thanks Mumma Bear.

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