And so, I cast my mind back to Saturday evening; only a few days ago and yet it seems that I've neglected wittering about it for ages. My current shift pattern makes blogging daily a lot more difficult than it once was - so we're definitely on "Daily(ish)" rations at the moment and for the foreseeable.
Mrs The Millbrooker and I left our own small haven from reality early on Saturday evening to spend some, not entirely unexpectedly, surreal times with Long-Lost-Cousin Neil, his lovely lady Mim and everyone's favourite Cousin Dave (complete with Saint Penny Potter).
Cousin Neil lives in rural splendour not very far from Tavistock on the very edge of Dartmoor. He also lives quite close to a very inviting looking hostelry which we'll have to try out next time we visit.
The evening descended quite quickly into untold silliness, so all photos are from the earliest part when we were still (mostly) capable of remembering that there was a camera present.
Here we have the male contingent, we're all quite closely related you know. (L-R Cousin Dave, yours truly, Long-Lost-Cousin Neil).
And, to balance things nicely (well almost) here we have two thirds of the female, and therefore eminently more sensible, contingent. Mrs The Millbrooker and Saint Penny of Dave.
So - on to a touch of the surrealism - and I have no intention of telling the innumerable stories that we swapped and giggled maniacally at, I'm not at all sure any of them would translate well into this format.
I'll simply leave it to your own fevered imaginations out there in the cheap seats as to who had the best condom story (in which a room full of elderly residents of a certain rural housing conversion wondered in a formal residents' meeting who might have been responsible for blocking the communal plumbing when there were only two, and very new, residents of the same establishment aged under about 80).
I'll leave it to possibly increase the feverishness of your imaginations to wonder why anyone might decide that the best implement with which to clean up one's botty-cleft after a poo might be a lump of rock. I still can't work that one out, whether or not one might have performed the evacuation on a beach or not.
As a clue each one of these stories belongs to a different one of the cousins present at Long-Lost-Cousin Neil's home.
We talked , laughed and drank deep into the night and Mrs The MIllbrooker and I are very grateful to Long-Lost-Cousin Neil and Mim for hosting the ridiculously enjoyable evening. We're looking forward to the next one.