I’m sick to death of mini golf. We exhausted it over lockdown when golf courses were the only remotely interesting thing that was still open.
It’s been a great year for playing tourist in your own town, especially if you really hate people.
All that was left was for me to get over myself and my crippling fear of… well, most things, and just get on the sodding boat.
It is quite nice being able to look round a museum without every other bastard in London being there at the same time.
I was half expecting to be digging up physical clues, but obviously that would be completely ridiculous and also it’s 2020, not 1952.
This particular day was so unbearably hot there was literally only about 10 minutes where at least one of us wasn’t crying or shouting.
Coronavirus is weird. Like literally someone in China ate a bat last winter and six months later we’re driving to Enfield to play jumped-up crazy golf.
A brilliant Coronatime activity, given that it’s outside and easy to stay really far away from everyone.
It sounds woefully irresponsible in hindsight but it almost felt like an end-of-the-world party.
Roma was already properly pushing the top end of the age limit and basically looked like a fully grown woman compared with most of the tiny babies.