On my birthday itself, I visited Lisa's Mum in the hope that she might have a present for me (luckily she did, otherwise it would have been a wasted journey), after which Lisa and I went out for the evening with her sister and a bloke from Torquay who's emigrating to Turkey on the grounds that they sound similar. Or something. I told him I wouldn't be brave enough to do the same. I'm too chicken to move to Turkey.
We ended up at The Swiss Cottage in Shoreham, a picturesque pub on a lake, where attack geese roam the car park looking for victims, and all the drinks come with ice, lemon, and a live duck. We spent the evening discussing Lisa's sister's criminal past, and people who eat their own excrement, and I discovered that Lisa has a bloke's phone number on the back of her birth certificate. But that's another story.
Anyhoo, after a successful evening's Cottaging, I woke up on Sunday morning and attempted to share my dreams with Lisa. Unfortunately, having got as far as "I dreamt I had a friend...", she interrupted with

The meal itself was fine. I ordered a starter with Gusto, my brother tried to leave without paying, Lisa called the waiter an Eastern European circus freak, and my Dad made a balloon parrot for the waitress. Just a normal family meal really.
We followed that with a game of football at the local park, which only lasted ten minutes after my sister-in-law hacked down Lisa's nephew in a nasty off-the-ball incident which went unseen by the referee. He had to be substituted, and I was forced to drive him home to wash the blood out of his t-shirt. That's the last time I'll be allowed to take him out for the afternoon. Fortunately though, he recovered sufficiently to play hide-and-seek, and beat me about the head with a cuddly aardvark, so I think he'll live. Which is more than I can say for myself - the diet starts again this morning.