1. How's this for eerie? For my flight to England, I bought a book at SFO called "On Chesil Beach" to read. Where was our first port of call? Right up the road from Chesil Beach.
2. Thankfully, the reality of the place was way more fabulous than the book itself, which I just could not get into.
3. I know, I know, I'm a moron for two reasons. One, that I couldn't get into a book that is supposedly all that. Two, because I fail to recognize that my self-conscious picked out that book precisely because that was where I was headed.
4. Ah, but I didn't know I was headed there. So there. (Or is that a third reason I'm a moron?)
5. In my younger days, I always believed I had to finish every book I started. I didn't care how crappy the book was: it had to be finished.
6. Our second port of call was France. Daughter was all over crepes. Eldest was into the paninis. Youngest stuck with his plan of always having McDonald's. Here he is, hanging with the chef in some Parisian Golden Arches.
7. Pete and I had to laugh when Eldest said, "French food just goes through me."
8. Yeah, paninis and Pizza Hut and some chocolate cereal: French food of champions.
9. At least I ate my weight in cheese whilst in France.
10. And chocolate and cider whislt in the U.K. It's frankly a wonder that I only gained five pounds whilst "over there." Consistently hitting the crack pipe since my return has the pounds nearly melting off.