l was only thinking to myself as l drove back from Bridlington this afternoon, that the traffic now seems to be continuous. There are a few good straight bits where you used to be able to put your foot down and break the speed limit, not anymore, you can barely make 45 mph. Where are these people coming from? Day trippers from Leeds or Hull perhaps, coming to partake in the bracing sea air & dine out on fish & chips? Commuters returning from a hard day at work? l guess probably a bit of both. Tourists or day trippers you can usually spot as they drive extremely s-l-o-w-l-y & forgo the use of indicators & breaks, plus the fact the driver is 9 time out of 10 an elderly chap whose wife is more than likely giving him an ear full. What is really awful, & a sign that 'The Season' is upon us is when you have to wait for the traffic to clear before pulling out of the drive onto the road. Merde
Oh for the quiet roads of yesteryear! That now leads my train of thought on to the Hull - Scarborough vintage car run which passes us sometime tomorrow morning. To me a car is a car. It ether goes fast or is not worth bothering about. The males in my family are what you could politely call petrol heads! My father is into anything that runs on an internal combustion engine whilst Hubby is Jag mad, & Harry? He's moved from steam trains to, can you guess? Cars! l suppose l ought to be pleased that none of them are sports buffs, that surely has got to be even worse. Sure l enjoy tennis, horse trials, dressage & sailing but cricket - yuk... football even yuckier [spelling?].
Lucy-Piglet was not feeling her normal bumptious self this morning. l don't know if it was because Gordon got the rabbit first, & being 'Top Dog' her nose was pushed out of joint or she had eaten something disagreeable. She put her self to bed with a labradorian flourish & removed to budge for a good few hours. l am pleased to announce there was not a lot wrong with her as she has partaken in her normal evening swim as usual. Incidentally the beach was wonderful this evening, the sea was flat - no sign of the harbour porpoise though - one solitary fisherman whom Gordon had to go and talk to, just in case he had a little something for him to nibble you understand! Who needs a psychiatrist when you have a beach at the bottom of your fields?