I expect you all want to know what it is that I was up to this weekend to get battered and bruised. I can tell you that it wasn't anything to do with 'Rough Trade' - thank you, MJ - or 'Happy-Slapping' - thank you, Tim. Or sticky white batter, SID!
Suffice it to say that the battering & bruising occurred due to hurtling down concrete-walled rapids in nothing but my swim-shorts, pursued by and pursuing - albeit unintentionally - Hot Dads™ *. I used my head and hips to vaguely control my descent hence the B & B. And once or twice the Hot Dad™s brought me to a halt in the staging pools, but only because I crashed into them as they were dilly-dallying around after their Precious Little Darlings. Still, it was bodily contact so I shouldn't complain...
There was also a luxurious wallow in a multi-themed spa on Sunday afternoon, to try and relax after the pushing and shoving that occurred in the subtropical pool complex earlier, and on the day before.
It helps to have (minor) celeb friends that can blag free entry in to such things. Although I'm sure a quick wave of my wand would've got the same result.
In other, more supernatural, matters, I may soon be rid of that hamadryad: I've fixed a
* Thirty-something, fit fathers of get-under-ones-feet-annoying-but-cute brats.