If you can't say anything nice....

...Don't say anything about the Midlands. In fact, don't go to the Midlands. It is, as the name suggests, the Middle of England. It's also, as fittingly described by most other English folk, a Shithole - quote, unquote.

This bank holiday long weekend has been an adventure wholly lacking in one. LB and I took to the train on Saturday morning to meet his sister and her husband halfway on their trek to Newcastle, their temporary home for the next three weeks before emigrating back to Sydney (via some seriously exotic travels in Europe and Asia of course). Anyway, we were optimistic about a fun weekend away - cute country pubs, walks in the countryside, cute country pubs. Hmm. Not so much.


Uppingham, the little village we were all staying in didn't even have Sky TV - the horror! - I think that nailed it for LB and his brother-in-law when it came to trying to find somewhere to watch the football. For the rest of us, it was a general lack of things to do. There was one great restaurant, that we did manage to dine at, once, a big fuck-off lake, Rutland Waters, that we made a token effort to walk past and then, driving aimlessly from village to nearby village, we got desperate enough to drive as far as Melton Mowbray, home of the famous ye olde porke pie. Only to find Ye Olde Porke Pie Shoppe closed. Ahh the Midlands.


To be fair we did get excited about discovering an organic food festival at the seriously beautiful Burghley House, a sprawling estate that's apparently one of the biggest and most impressive of the Elizabethan era. While it was breath-taking, we didn't actually go in because each of us had varying levels of moral objection to paying 10 quid for the privilege but we did wander about the grounds. As for the organic food festival, well it was a handful of tents, some half-hearted barbeques and a few jam pots. The disappointment was palpable but at least we could laugh about it all.


What I'm not laughing about is the impending start of The Writing of My Dissertation but given the choice I think I'd rather write three dissertations than spend another long weekend in middle England. I still don't understand what people do there - or worse, why they do it - and seemingly voluntarily. Oh to be back in London. Smile.