The Joys of Roger Kirk Breakfast

I haven't written in forever, I suck at life, Rachel is a smellypants etc etc. But I am here now, and that will have to suffice. Actually, as I am now in England again and therefore contactable, this blog is potentially redundant. But I like listening to myself speak, so I will continue. HA. That told you.

I am in England! Go figure! So, after camp I went to stay in Northern New Hampshire with the mountains and the bears (and trees and rocks and rocks and trees), and had a fab time with Megan doing a lot of sleeping and a bit of sunbathing. Then I went on a bus adventure to Cape Cod, and pretended that I was friends with all of the important people who were on holiday near by. There was more sleeping, more sunbathing, some EXTREME sunburn, a lot of ice cream, and some cycling. And some Oxford commas. He has done marvellous things and the suchlike.

Then it was home, James, don't spare the horses, and back to Merrie England. Three cheers for Merrie England, because that is where la famille reside. And THEN!!! The American contingent arrived! And I had a lot of chaotic sightseeing with a lot of people named Ellen, most of which seemed to involve dinosaurs or Romans as far as I can tell.

My. House. Is. Amazing. As are my housemates, and my landlords. Best idea ever. I am never leaving this house and these people; try and make me. Beautiful room, beautiful view, lots of putting bizarre things in each others' beds, and clambering into/onto each others beds for late night chatting and giggles. Peril ensues when three people plus very fuzzy dressing gowns attempt to fit in one bed. I.e. we are too fat, and should stop eating so much nutella and milk tart. Or just not try to fit three in the bed. Because the little one did say, 'roll over', but they didn't.

Rugby started off being amazing. Fantabulous new players, fantabulous new coaches, lots of mud and dressing like farm animals. Then came the FATEFUL DAY when we played HYMS. A.k.a. the harbingers of death and gloom. Perhaps it is common knowledge that playing scrum half results in injury nine times out of ten, as it certainly seems to be the case for me. Everything was going swimmingly, except for the swimming which was largely ineffective due to the glut of grass and the lack of water. And then my foot snapped in half. Or something a little less dramatic. But it did make quite a spectacular noise.

And then there was Roger. Roger was my backslab, otherwise known as a 'pot'. He was a knee-high monstrosity of plaster and bandages, and he was not my friend. He lasted four days and was replaced by Roger Kirk Breakfast who is like a shoe with no toes, and the colour of a pink highlighter. RKB, as he is affectionately known, has a magical sandal so that he can go anywhere (except underwater). So far he has been pretty much nowhere (except underwater). However, anticipate many more adventures soon, possibly involving bananas and wooly underwear.

That is a picture of Roger with a wooly hat on.