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This past weekend was a Bank Holiday in England, so my husband and I decided to go away for a few days. Although I love going abroad, I absolutely love visiting places in the UK, especially if there is a cosy cottage/apartment to stay in, countryside, history and gastro pubs. With this in mind, we chose to stay in a converted chapel near Bath. Bath is one of my favourite cities due to its  beautiful architecture, charming shops/restaurants and literary history.


We have been before, going to the Roman baths and the Thermae spa, and unfortunately this time the heavens decided to open and torrential rain prevented a leisurely stroll through the streets. Instead, we ducked in to my obligatory stop, Jo Malone (because I can never have too many scented candles), a chocolaterie (ditto salted caramels) and a candlelit pub for a glass of warming red wine, before heading off for a hearty meal at the Acorn vegetarian restaurant.


That’s pretty much all I did all weekend. I had grand plans of caving at Cheddar Gorge and checking out the mystical highlights of Glastonbury, but the prevailing rain, coupled with fatigue meant I mainly slept, ate and read. No change there then. Ah, I live a rock n roll life. Oh, and I rediscovered the deliciously unhealthy jammie-goodness of Pop Tarts. I ate all of them. I must not be allowed anywhere near those evil frosted breakfast pastries ever again!


Earlier last week we did Dino Snores, an event where you get to spend the night over at The Natural History Museum. We bought some dinosaur onesies especially and after eating in the restaurant, went to a lecture on insect sex. Yes, I did just say that. It mainly consisted of an enthusiastic lady showing projections of insects doing it.


Next up was a dino art class, where I was dismayed to learn that the T-Rex basically looked little like the typical view we have of them, and that they were feathered and didn’t stand tall like we do. Their posture more resembled someone with a bad back.


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Feathered T-Rex. Pah!


My favourite part of the evening was by far the ghost stories segment, reserved for the wee hours of the morning, when most people had retired to their sleeping bags and were indeed snoring away in the grand entrance hall, as a fellow dino onesie-wearing harpist played an enchanting array of movie scores and classical pieces.


I love a good ghost story. I love a good ‘fictional’ ghost story, and although I’m a skeptic – despite experiencing weird phenomena myself – I really love a good ‘true’ ghost story. Apparently the museum is haunted by a stag and some children, but the higher powers of the museum are part of some conspiracy to cover it up – taking video and photographic evidence and generally keeping schtum about it. Which made these revelations all the weirder to me. Oh well. Later that night I lay, cocooned in my sleeping bag, kind of hoping the stag ghost would make an appearance – after all, an animal apparition seems less scary than seeing a person, and definitely preferable to the scary shenanigans of Poltergeist and Paranormal Activity. BTW, I have been using the word shenanigans a lot recently, simply because it is a marvellous word.






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