Licensed to Ill - aka what happens when there's no waves

Like every other child of the 80s/90s I've been listening to Beastie Boys songs all day. RIP MCA.

And 'licensed to ill' aptly sums up my weekend. I had to expend energy somehow so instead of tiring myself out on the waves - after the last couple of weeks we finally decided to believe Swellnet's 'no great days' forecast - I popped on the party pants (in the form of a black leather skirt) on Saturday night. All in all it was an awesome night in three acts - the last act of which is a little fuzzy around the edges but thanks to the kindness of a stranger I made it safely home in a taxi. I woke up in my bed fully clothed at 11am feeling like I'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. So much for the dry May I'd planned. Hell, it was a special occasion as one of my favourite ladies in the whole wide world got hitched. Who doesn't want to toast to that?

She put a ring on it

When I was laying in bed yesterday waiting for my distress flare to be answered - home delivery of lemonade, coke and chips by Roobs, god bless her cotton socks - I was thinking how this violent hangover wouldn't have happened if there had been waves. (Perhaps if I hadn't got a little over-excited and drank too much I wouldn't have been feeling like death but that's beside the point). Surfing keeps me on the straight and narrow. There's nothing worse than surfing with a hangover because with my limited ability good things don't happen. So, this weekend it's off to Lorne for as many sessions as my paddling spaghetti arms will allow. I'll be dry May as a bone. And trying to surf like this ...