Bad Cheese

Well what a load of old arse! Me and Shaggy made the trek down to the Forest of Dean, to attend the Great British Cheese Festival, and what would you know, the fecking place flash-flooded and they closed it down. No cheese for me, not one crumb of rotten stinking slimy stilton for my birthday belly. Boo.

Not that the weekend was a dead loss. We enjoyed the hospitality of "My Future Husband", firstly attending a party in a giant barge moored on the Severn, then staying the night at his very rustic cottage in the rolling hills of the Severn Valley. When I say "My Future Husband" this is Shaggy's notion, convinced that this Cider-making hulk of West-Country goodness is destined for me, being as I'm so "earthy" and clearly in need of getting thrown over the shoulder of some peasant type and spanked to within an inch of my life. He certainly was good company, and it was difficult not to be sucked in by his rather enchanting country ways, but the reality check was the noticeable absence of spark. I fear my life as a country wife is not getting any nearer people!!