Bath ski-ing - a new Urban sport
Six or so years ago, Mrs Osok made a very silly decision and said "I Will" and chained herself in a very legally binding way to the ugly bloke in a kilt who coincidentally happened to be standing next to her looking quite frankly terrified.

Hanyway, we were originally off to somewhere in Johnny-Foreigner-Land for the nuptials, but thanks to a minor airliner/skyscraper interface in the US the flights were all to cock. So we decided that we were off to bonny Jockland, to a wee 'retreat' hotel. No kids, double baths, view over the loch, charming hosts, lovely food, and no kids. Now that hotel was 100% as advertised, superb and wonderful and if it wasn't for the inconvenient rugrats then I'd go back like a shot.

However, I had decided to drive up rather than fly and hire a tin box. No probs. Rather late on in the planning, I was informed that She Who Must Be Ignored would rather overnight on the way up so we could have brekkie with the hideous remains of our guestlist from the night before, and have a nice amble Northwards.

And what could I book at short notice? A TravelHell sorry Lodge. All is not lost, they're OK really, it's only for one night etc.

Check in, allegedly a sesh of studly magnificence occurred to make up for the passing out in a drooling heap the night before.

My dear lady wife then decides it's shower time. Off she trots, splishy splashy.....and then a sound I can only descibe as "SkweeeekThudFUCKFUCKFUCK".

I don't know what they used to clean their baths after Dazza the photocopier salesman and Sloppy Sally from Sales have been in residence, but it turns baths into completely frictionless surfaces. Causing my moist, fragrant beloved to adopt the manoevre known vulgarly as "arse over tit".

This caused much rib-bruising, mostly when I noticed that she'd put the bathmat (that'd be the rubber thing to stop you slipping that they had a sign up about using OR ELSE YOU DIE) on the bathroom floor, took the piss, and was promptly punched. Repeatedly.

I think no more of this Incident of Random Blondeness, and we head off to our week of much bouncy-bouncy lurrve, a bit of hillwalking, distillery tours, and getting lost on the West Highland Way. Which is impossible.

Upon our return, she's still complaining, and nips to the scab-lifter. To discover two fractured ribs. Hard Lass Wor Lass or What?

(Of course everyone thought I was a wifebeating scumbag, but hey)
(osok Rebel without a clue, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 17:37, 3 replies)

*clicks*
well told, that man!
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 17 Jan 2008, 18:10, closed)

.
Indeed! Top hat old boy!
(Potty Jag har smör i min rumpspringa, Thu 17 Jan 2008, 19:06, closed)

^^^Wot they sed^^^
Marvellous narrative!
*click*
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Fri 18 Jan 2008, 8:49, closed)