This is not a blog.
My final blog, written a few weeks ago, caused some serious upset, due to its sensitive nature. Seriously, weddings can be that divisive.
Instead, this is written purely as a diary, intended to nudge the memory of my future self. So those of you who are not called Phil, who are not doddery old gits with a white moustache that has crept weed-like over the rest of your face, do not have straggly hair coiffured in a way that Gollum would be proud of.... please ignore the verbiage to come...
...
Hi Phil! This is me, erm, you, err, writing to you from your past. I realise that technology has probably moved on a bit, and that this non-blog is being spoken to you directly into what's left of your brain bypassing your now over-abused ear-holes, but I'm writing this down using an ancient technology called a keyboard. You may remember gaining mastery over two-finger typing during a period of about fifty years. Well, they probably no longer exist for you as your memory will now be on a small chip implanted into your bottom.
For you, it must be a bit like watching reality tv.
This time I'm going to tell you about a road trip you made way back in the year twenty twenty-five, (if man is still alive, if woman can survive)... This was back in the days when you could drive something bigger than that hover-chair you are slumped in now. It was a trip to visit your family and friends scattered over what you, in your time, will probably call the Russian Empire. I will include a few pictures to remind you of who people are.
That photo was not actually of a person, but of the campervan that you used to drive. Remember?
We (that is, you and your erstwhile carer) took three days to get to the UK, as we stopped at various places en route. For example, we took a break in the Loire Valley, both on the way 'up' and then later on the way 'down' (assuming you are holding the map up the right way inside your bottom). Here, for instance, is the Chateau de Chaumont...
We eventually arrived in Calais and slept there overnight to make sure that we had plenty of time the next morning to get lost and have panic attacks.
We then sped along to Bristol where the evening was spent with two of your sprogs and their respective peoploids.
Yes! That's you on the left, remember? And those others? They pop round every now and again to help feed you.
Do you remember that the next day when we visited a stately home near Bristol?
...that showcased an amazing acrobatic act?
Of course, the usual adverts for hair spray interrupted the show...
Not all the audience was impressed...
A wise old woman, holder of a wizened staff, spoke wisely to the ingrates, wisely suggesting that perhaps a wise new actor was needed...
... so Will and Lisa wisely obliged.
We drove on into the depths of Wales where we met once more with your eldest sprog and his sproglette.
We also met with a host of your friends in Wales but stupidly forgot to take any photos. Yes, the beer was that good.
The following day you drove back to Dover, although 'parking' might have better described the voyage, spending several hours in endless traffic jams.
We spent the night in St Margaret's Bay, next to Dover, where we wined and dined in a local establishment,
with a few of the local lasses.
The next morning...
...we were awoken by a strange gelfling that Annick seemed overly fond of. His name was 'Nick'. His surname 'Robb'. There seemed to be a clue there...
And then, back on an over-crowded ferry to Calais,
and onwards to the outskirts of Paris to spend a couple of days with Annick's minuscule family...
Actually, that is just a small non-representative sample...
Thankfully, professional photographers were on hand to record the event.
Heading down the map, we once more visited the Loire valley, here in the guise of the Chateau de Villandry.
With gardens on a par with your very own, the one you get pushed around every now and then, when your servants can be bothered.
Back then, you even managed the steps...
And then you finally returned to your future care home...
