Postcards from the Nigel.

 These set squares are a nightmare. 

 Anyone for butter?

 Aries head. 

 Canal Street. 

 Windows to the soul. 

 Honey I shrunk my pants. 

 Well done my son, the table cloth is all yours. 

 Spanish Brazilian. 

 Sunday carving. 

 Sigourney? Sigourney?

 Sea? Sure.

 Boaty McBoat Face. 

 Sea Foam. 

 Eye Talion Stallion. 

 Cray Twins. 

 2 thousand and Sistine. 

 D'oh mmmm.

 Zip but no dress?

Post (Tait) Modern. 

The passenger from hell

The Spanish couple on our London to Seatle leg were seriously fed up to find that he was in 8A and she was in 8B but that there was an aisle between them and to add insult to injury the aisles didn't even line up. This meant that she was sitting next to some other unsuspecting fella but she did not let that deter her. She bent his ear from the moment his backside hit his seat leather. I fell asleep to her waxing lyrically about British pork and woke an hour later to find her still in full throttle - her victim looking somewhat the worse for wear. Her husband on the other hand, banged away at his slaptop and made it his mission to get his pound of flesh from the hostess. Red wine, peanuts, crackers and whisky were ferried by the lorry load though I noticed that pork scratchings were noticeably absent.

Sliding doors.

He definitely fancied himself living here. 

Pie eyed.

English pubs have yet to discover paleo - 2 heart attacks later...

Tongue tied.

I've got London licked. 

Stone me.

Too many sticky fingers.
The Saatchi Gallery show off how The Rolling Stones lived in their early days. 

Goal.

After the rejections of the night, we stumbled into a pub to watch the football. There we were treated like locals, ie ignored, sworn at, joked about and jostled. The perfect end to a perfect night.