From Christchurch, with love

What a lovely few days.

On Thursday, the London gang (plus honorary guest, Hazel) met up for dinner to celebrate Kath's birthday. There was gossip, there was Champagne, there was simultaneous celebration and giggling. All was excellent.

I didn't Plog about this at the time. I apologise. And when Erica and I went to pick Hazel up on Saturday evening for dinner in Loughborough, I was rebuked by Hazel's Mum - a Plogger - who had wanted to know all of the details, and fully expected a Plog about it. So I apologise.

Then Hazel's Mum and I got into a rather surprising conversation about knitted wombs. Hazel's Mum wished she'd had a knitted womb. Apparently Hazel turned round during birth and made things a bit more complicated than they needed to be. A knitted womb might have made things clearer somehow. (I wasn't exactly sure how.)

Hazel is a dear, dear friend, and I would trust her with my life. Unless the "life" thing involved any type of sense of direction. Let me be clear here. My sense of direction is shocking. Without my trusty sat-nav, Jessica, I can barely find my way to Sainsbury's. But Hazel makes me look like Ranulph Fiennes. She can literally get confused and disorientated in a square room with one door, bless her.

So it did make me giggle to realise that this isn't a new thing. Hazel is the only person I know who actually got lost and tried to go the wrong way during her own birth.

No wonder she lives in New Zealand. She was probably aiming for Edinburgh.