No, not rain on your wedding day. Actually, that's probably not all that ironic unless you happen to be a climatologist who's marrying a meteorologist.
No, consider the irony of someone living in the UK's second largest city, sharing space with over a million other living, breathing and (occasionally) noisy people. He needs some rest and relaxation, so goes to a small Welsh coastal village with a population of a few hundred souls.
He fails to get any sleep. At all. For three straight nights, including the one before he comes home. Making the 220-mile drive home something that will boost Red Bull share prices well into the New Year.
That someone was me, by the way. Everyone, repeat after me: "Welsh cottages at the end of a coastal rift valley may experience some considerable wind noise in December, more so than your double-glazed semi in the suburbs."
Despite that, we had a great time. Some highlights:
- My predictions regarding Christmas Day were a little off the mark. Itunes issues meant that the Phil Spector backing track went awry - we had to have a Rat Pack Christmas instead. Katie came down with flu and although we had Christmas dinner out, she couldn't taste it at all. "But the goose felt nice as I was chewing it," she said later.
- Activity levels, partly due to Katie's condition but mainly down to our laziness, were lower than a snake's belly. Here's an example:
That's our car, parked in front of "our" cottage. And that's where it stayed for almost a week. Apart from one trip out. To the bottle bank. Shocking, I know.
- Winter skies like this:
- Claire, who works at the Cambrian Inn, and her turn of phrase. On asking about the singer and band we'd heard playing old rock and roll standards the night before, she rolled her eyes and referred to him as Elvis Preseli. It's a Wales thing.
- We didn't manage The Official 2007 Bad Taste Christmas Challenge. Sorry. But we did spend time perfecting our Catalogue Poses. I'm delighted, as I type this, to learn that we're not alone in enjoying this pastime. There's even a Flickr group. I see a theme emerging in the New Year, especially if I run out of subjects to write about.
- By Thursday Katie had recovered enough to want to eat out again. So energetic was she at pulling off the head of her last crevette that I expected to see it go flying across the restaurant - a little like that sausage on the fork in the opening credits for Grange Hill in the eighties. (I suspect that might be a reference too far for some of you.)
- If you're ever near Cardiff Gate services on the M4, visit the Burger King there to see the amazing ventriloquist trainee at work. He talks to all the customers, but never moves his mouth. Surely after the 200th time a customer says, "Sorry, didn't get that," he might just begin to get the hint. God knows how lip-readers cope.
- Katie took over driving us home after Cardiff, as the Red Bull was wearing off. She is a fine and enthusiastic driver. And I should shut up about her one-handed lane changes. (Will that do, dear?)