Check. Check. (Double-check)

I’ve epiladied (is so a verb) all the relevant portions of me that will be on display. And attended to a few that won’t. (Should’ve been a hairdresser.)

Important items have been laid out. (Fags, wine, Kindle, more fags, extra wine – in case. She’s bringing the whiskey and Pepsi Max.)

I’ve still to pack a bag. (And lubricate my voicebox). It will be a marathon. (A marathon and a half, more like.)

Forty-four hours (give or take) in the company of my best friend.

There will be swimming, there will be pummelling, there will be saunaing (is that a verb?) There will be lounging about at poolside and reading (maybe). There will be cuisine. (And I won’t be in it.) There will be drinking of various beverages. (*note* take extra coffee).

There will be laughing and there will be tears too, no doubt. (Ever laughed till the tears ran down your legs? Yeah, that.)

Mostly, there will be talking. Lots and lots of talking. I’ve known this lass since I was seventeen.

Met her at a bus station on the way to college. Knew I liked her before I’d even spoken to her. If she or I had been a guy we’d probably have married. Twelve sprogs we’d have between us now. (Still have, come to think of it.) 

She’s run after her crew for Christmas (and I’ve done a fair bit too.)

Apparently, in some parts of Ireland, women get the sixth of January off for all their Chrissy efforts. I’ve been working.

But not this weekend, I’m not.

One more workaday. Then Bingo! Full house! Jackpot! (Or whatever you say when you know you’ve struck it lucky.)

Snow’s forecast here, they say.  It would be just terrible if we were snowed in (after we got there). (Double-check forecast.)