A case of Too Much Information

We went away for the weekend to Southampton. That's two of the Hamptons I've got covered, just need to visit East and West to get the full set.

The whole idea was to have a weekend of rest and relaxation. Katie had booked an Actually Quite Posh Hotel. It's a little difficult to relax when you're laughing at golfers, but we were up for the challenge. She'd even booked stress-busting massage treatment for us both.

On the journey down on Friday, we'd had to grab food at motorway services somewhere around Oxford, as we'd missed breakfast. Normally, motorway services food is like a holiday scooter - you don't buy it, you merely rent it for a while. But the burger I'd had, with added jalapenos, was making its presence felt for the medium term.

I'm sure I don't need to paint you a picture. But I could have cleared a city block.

Oh. I appear to have painted you a picture.

On Saturday morning we went to Ringwood Brewery near the New Forest to replenish our stock of beer to be drunk while wearing knitwear. Following the official Real Ale Rule of Daft Beer Names, Ringwood produce ales such as Boondoggle, Old Thumper, Gruntfuttock and Huffkin.

I have made one of those up. Answers in the comments, please.

And then to the spa treatment. Believe it or not, I'm a stranger to aromatherapy. I get nervous around New Age music. I'm always waiting for the key change. But I thought I'd give it a go. A very pleasant lady of a certain age was willing to help me with this, through the medium of palm oil and robust manipulation.

The trouble is, the burger of yesterday was still wanting to make its presence felt. And, as much as I wanted to get to and stay in my happy place, my plans were thwarted by the constant refrain in my head.

"Just don't fart. Just don't fart. Just don't fart. Just don't fart."

I'm oversharing again, aren't I?