Whinging Across the Atlantic: Durham, town of the large beds and tarty dresses

We stayed at Durham twice, on our way to and coming back from York. We liked the bed and breakfast so well that we came back, to no small extent because the bed was large enough for our large frames. European beds are apparently made for slender midgets, which I don't understand in the least because I have now seen some very large Europeans. I think perhaps it's a scam, similar to the one that happens in dressing rooms; you know, the one that involves a bikini and a solemn vow never to eat again? Anyway, I can't really chop off Andrew's feet without causing problems, so it's good to find a large bed.

On our second visit, we ventured into the town center, which, because it was on a Saturday night, turned out to be a bit of a mistake. Up until that point, I had been marveling at how little flesh even the young women were showing. I had been especially grateful to go several days without seeing another woman's thong. But apparently, once the work week is over, the clothes come off. In Durham, there's a Saturday-night uniform involving, for the ladies, an excessively short dress with excessively high heels (nasty on cobblestone streets, let me tell you) and a thick layer of blue eye shadow. The all wear T-shirts or short sleeves with the tails out, as if to say, "my testosterone levels are too high for me to be concerned with fashion." Imagine Andrew and me in the midst of this, hungry, looking for a restaurant, and being told that the wait was at least an hour. Ick.

So, we took a few pretty pictures, drove back to the B&B and got take-away. We had pizza and fish and chips on a bench in the park. It doesn't get much better than that! :)