The long dog's egg

Most people are familiar with the expression "the curate's egg"

meaning something bad in parts but with redeeming features

and when attempting to describe my morning it was the first thing

that sprang to mind by way of a description.

 

 

But then, when I thought about it, nothing really bad

happened nor, for that matter, anything truly astonishing

either - it was just a bit surreal. 

So what could be more bizarre than a long dog's egg?

 

 

 

 

The urge to "do something" saw me up and out of the house

before sparrow fart in the company of my Ozzie daughter-in-law who

had a session for some serious waltzing of her Matilda booked in

at the local gym, so I tagged along for the ride

never having been to such an establishment before and

always up for a new experience or three.

 

I do now!

 

Being neither a born again virgin nor particularly active (sexually or

otherwise) which seemed to be the criteria for entry according to the  

large panel in the foyer I thought I might somehow be

in the wrong place so while my little marsupial kinswoman

did her thing on the various instruments of torture I shimmied

off to see what the boys were doing downstairs and I

certainly wasn't disappointed.  Quick stand me under a cold shower,

I'm not used to quite so much excitement in the space of half an hour.

 

 

Your eyes do not deceive you - these are bricks and the brick shop

was just another fun packed venue along the way on today's

magical mystery tour.

 

I had never before realised quite how many varieties there are on offer

and having finally decided upon two thousand of the

finest Norfolk red's to be delivered next weekend we went

on our merry way once more - there and back

just to see how far it is - and all on an empty stomach!

Can't wait to see what's on the agenda for this afternoon.

I wonder what I should wear, I think my jodphurs are still in the wash.