I had a delightful weekend chez bookwormsarah where despite being West of the Pennines (and East of the Irish Sea*) it did not rain and there was even snow on the fells, which unusually for me was where I wanted it rather than at my own feet. I enjoyed other people's excellent cooking (pizza! chips! bilberry tart**! the Amazing Aubergine(TM)!, more ventures into the world of soup!), steam trains, traction engines (and now I know what one actually is), dancing dragons, and the People's History Museum, which made C19 political history a hell of a lot more exciting than my A-level British history teacher did***.
Then I caught the train home by the skin of my teeth, and on the bus at this end was asked by the driver, backed up by the woman in the front seat, if I was the Hotel Inspector of Channel 5 fame. Fortunately it turns out that the Hotel Inspector I remember has been replaced by one rather closer to my age and looks, so it is a lot more plausible and indeed complimentary.
*The bogglement also applies west of the Irish Sea. It's not that I don't like visiting friends in Ireland, but I regard packing full waterproofs at mid-summer as a bit much. It ought not to be dark at 9pm on June 21st in Galway.
**Or wimberry, as it is called locally. I cannot express how much in favour I am of localities that sell bilberry pie, whatever they choose to call it. Especially when I can also buy Longley Farm rhubarb yoghurt to bring home on the train. My bag was heavy, though, so I could only borrow one book (though I bought three).
*** I might not have dozed through the Cato Street Conspiracy if he had mentioned William Davidson, the black son of the Jamaican Attorney-General. Come to that, if he had mentioned pretty much any personal angle at all bar Gladstone's tendency to pick up prostitutes and then whip himself (though that one is definitely worth mentioning).