Land of my fathers

Or to be more accurate land of my father.  I discovered a few years ago that my dad was born in Wales and was terribly excited, thinking it weally womantic to be Welsh.  Since then my hopes have been dashed, as his parents and the rest of my family (on both sides) seem to come from Battersea, Wandsworth and Croydon.  Not romantic at all.  Apologies to any Croydonians – but let’s be honest the wilds of Wales beat downtown Croydon any day of the week.

Anyway today we toodled off for a drive just across the border into Wales and very spring-like it was too.  We stumbled upon Sycharth, home of Owain Glyndŵr, Welsh patriot (never captured by the English).  So we stopped, had a walk around and I tried to feel all Welsh and defiant and therefore pleased about yesterday’s rugby result.

Oh and speaking about sporting results, can I just point out to certain friends and relatives today’s result: Arsenal 5 – Spurs 2.  I, of course, have too much inherent niceness and integrity to dwell on this so I shall say no more.  No, no, not a further word will be typed by me on the matter.  Not a single one, or even say, five or two.

Oh before I forget (and get my ears chewed off by the other-half) I have an exciting newsflash.  The jigsaw has been finished (by the other-half).  Evidence below.  As a result tomorrow will be declared a national holiday.  When I say the jigsaw is complete I mean minus the two pieces that we think the cat ate (could have been worse, he could've eaten five pieces).

Well, after a day of getting back to my roots, sort of, not to mention jigsaw excitement, I’m ready for a sherry or five or two.