The Master and her Beau took it into their somewhat human heads that we should away to London this weekend past, in order to 'do various things'.
Thus, armed with my travel kit (food, coat, towels, favourite rug, one of my kill-teds (Kill Stegosaurus for this particular jaunt)) we headed south for family and friends.
The Master doesn't have too much of a pack (lucky she's got herself a fine and well-toothed 2IC), but the Beau's is fairly extensive, with firm territories held in east Manchester and south-east London. The northern lot I'm well familiar with, and we've reached a happy truce of respect. The southern territories, however, were new to me; and though I've visited London on a number of occasions, this was my first time on their particular patch.
I quickly lay down on it. I find sleeping is usually the best strategy.
London was all about the Olympics. I listened knowledgeably to the constant talk of speed and form, interjecting where necessary with a raised brow or ear. Occasionally I even opened an eye. A seasoned athlete myself, it would be remiss of me, I feel, not to pass on my expertise in these matters.