Friday was a write off. Hangovers mixed with apprehensions about the weather and everyone had a bit of the grumps about them. We wandered about St Andrews in the rain, debating whether Saturday's polo would be cancelled. Lunch didn't help, beer didn't help, coffee didn't help and the Fat Face sale didn't help. We were all a bunch of miserable gits.
Staying up late to watch bad movies, a call came through - there'd been a car accident. Everyone was ok. Sam and I leapt into action. Five minutes and two strong coffees later we were on the road and almost halfway to the scene when the call came through telling us that the car was fine and they were driving back. Sam and I returned, exhausted, deflated, deprived of the chance to be heroes and relieved at the same time. Time to sack out.
Saturday proved that some people deal with the devil. In spite of every weather service on the planet predicting heinous deluges of rain, the sun bathed Perth in glorious light all day, the menacing thunderheads on the horizon staying on the horizon. Apprehension, misgivings, disgruntlement and grumpiness succumbed to the sunshine, bbq sizzle and copious quantities of beer and wine. And there was polo as well. Sadly, England beat Scotland, though Pete C did win man-of-the-match. Following the match we decended upon the marquee and boogied hard.
After the polo the gang returned to Naughton and got stuck in, raiding the fridge and freezer for munchies while ploughing through wine and beer. Adam got a bug stuck in his ear. Some chat went far too far. Once again, going to bed was not a forgone conclusion. Charlotte discovered a newt.
We were far more pissed than it was.