BrokeBack (Fruit) Mountain

Using me loaf, I got on the dog and bone to BA. Cor blimey me old chinas. What’s the jackanory? Them merchant bankers really get on me thr’penny bits. So, I took the trouble and strife on the Michael Caine for a butchers daaaaan saaaaf.

Making a dramatic lack of progress in the quest to regain my luggage – and with a couple of weeks to spare,- we packed our bags (well, Jools packed hers) and journeyed to the Eastern European village of Bidborough in Kent.

Breaking with tradition, we went back to basics and moved into a shabby caravan on a leafy, sprawling caravan park. Amongst the throngs of Poles, Ukrainians, Bulgarians, Romanians, Russians, Georgians, Slovakians (repeat ad infinitum), the two of us formed a thriving British ethnic minority of two. After a mere 5 days of back-breaking, near 12-hour days of picking raspberries and blackberries for minimum wage, my back broke. A broken back not being a condition particularly conducive to a fruit-picking career, we were prompted into breaking cover, beating a hasty retreat back to the safety and comfort of Jools' brother’s back room in Kensington.

Cribbageski Updateski: For the first time since Russia (how apt) things are tied. Jools 32 Kev 32