Spent the afternoon with Tony, his sister and Mrs N on Preston's Whit fair. The last time I came to the fair was five years ago in my days as a local councillor, I was canvassing for the imminent elections but folk were more interested in hot dogs and hook a duck than my political spiel.
Today's glorious sunshine left me with a slight wardrobe crisis. Unable to fasten the button on my white holiday shorts I secured them with a safety pin. I couldn't find a t-shirt ample enough to stretch over my stomach so I opted for an open loose cotton shirt worn with vest. Ray has made off with my trainers so I had to wear slip on shoes, which chaffed against my bare feet somewhat.
Tony was eager to impress Mrs N and kept suggesting bigger and more daring rides. After a rather challenging mid afternoon snack of candyfloss and half a beefburger he suggested we go on the Mexican Wave. At this point I was limping wth blistered feet and the waistband of my shorts was cutting into my sides like bread knife. I said I'd sit it out (I'd already accompanied him on five gut wrenching rides, costing the best part of fifteen pounds). He was insistent, reluctantly I queued only for Tony to decide last minute that he wanted to get off leaving me sat alone. The safety belt had gone down and there was no way out. As the ride started up my stomach churned and gurgled, I was like a human Mount Vesuvius on a spin cycle. As the pounding techno music got louder the gripping cramps of revolt twisted tighter in my stomach. Three minutes later I was back on terra firma, I staggered towards the nearest alley eager to get out of sight of everyone but it was too late. No sooner had Tony asked if anyone fancied a hot dog with extra onions I vomited into Mrs N's Bag for Life.
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