Nyerrrrrrcasstle

I've been home for the weekend. HOME home. You know, like where my mum and dad live. Newcastle. Nyerrrcasstle.

credit where credit's due

Or actually, Washington, Tyne and Wear. Washington. Yes, as in America. No, it's not IN America. Hence the accent. It's the ancestral home of George Washington. No, there's not that many American tourists. Yes, an American president visited us once. I don't know which one. He planted a tree on the village green, or so my Year 6 primary school teacher informed us. Yes, it's a New Town. That means there's a lot of roundabouts. Yes, it was horrific learning to drive there. No, I've never seen Jimmy Nail. Or Gazza. Or Sting.

With Bedders still in Brussels, I had a Proper Family and Friends Weekend. And it was lovely. I had lunch at the Italian we used to go to when we were, like, 17 and fancied ourselves as a bit grown up. The lunchtime special (two courses) used to be £4.95 - now it's £7.50. Still a bloody bargain.

We went for a drink in the Central, site of a crafty hen do some months back. Ah, a grand time was had. 

(bloody art teacher outshining us all with her talent)

Oh, Newcastle. Leeds has nabbed me by accident of history, but my heart belongs to you.

And I love this Geordie Jeans sketch from Vic and Bob.

"They're geet tight roond the arse."

Hen Dos

So I had a hen do.

And it was properly fantastic.

Like, really, really fantastic.

We rented the rooftop bar in the Central in Nyerrcassle (technically Gateshead, actually). T'is a lovely place. Same shape as the Flat Iron building in New York, except mini and in the North East. It's owned by the same folk who own Head of Steam opposite the station in town, but it has two major advantges in that it's infinitely more aesthetically pleasing as a building and it doesn't reek of smelly farts. Always a winner.

We hired the rooftop terrace, which was wonderful. We were up 'midst the rooftops of Gateshead. Every so often a train rattled by. It was hot. We drank shandy up on the roof. I got a Drifters' song stuck in my head.

Myself and bridesmaid Alex had debated what activity to do for some time. You see, I had this inexplicable desire to do some life-drawing. As long as it was a fat, old bloke, you understand. Preferably with a beard. I loved the idea of it.  A bit-tongue in cheek, a bit Benny Hill. Brilliant dress-up opportunity in that we could wear berets and fake moustahces.  

But the fella at the college was a bit slack. And I'm an organisation freak. Not a good combination. So we went back to the drawing board. And Alex came up with contacting the ladies at Made in Newcastle - a super-cool little shop in the toon that specialises in all things crafty and kitsch.

Let me tell you: The Girl Done Good.

We decided on getting the gang to do some felting and make some bunting. You know, felting. To felt (not "to felch" as Katy Tew said. In front of my mum). Basically, stuff a load of candy-floss-type wool into a frame with a barbed needle and make a keyring or brooch. Or a 'Creature', which was what AP managed. And bunting - heck, you're reading a wedding blog,. You know what bunting is, don't you?

I was so ridiculously excited. I saw the mini ironing boards and went into spasms. Then I spied the sewing machines and the button box and nearly died. Then out came the cupcakes and that about finished me off...

We went oot on the toon Newcastle-stylee, i.e. Not Wearing A Coat. I wore a fancy dress and drank raspberry mojitos. Never has more fun been had.

And to think the weekend before I'd had a major "I don't even WANT a hen do!" stampy-foot-temper-tantrum with Bedford. Hen dos? Do 'em. It'll reaffirm your faith in friends and family and their infinite wonderfulness. Honest. And that's not the mojitos talking. Hen don'ts? Don't get stressed. It'll be reet, as they say in Newcastle.