Highway to Hull

Ok, when a good friend and former almost neighbour said "Hey! WTF, Come up for the annual Bluegrass Nosepicker's Fest and Money-Grubbing Cash Grab Extravaganza", Sheena found it profoundly difficult to say, "Oh Sorry, Washing Your Hair".

Not that I don't lurve my bald friends, but they are more demanding than expected.

Challenge #1: Swallowing pride, gall and bile to actually instruct L'Express du Pony to turn onto "Autoroute Cinquante"... No.. no.. it's not the highway of bad beer. It's worser. It's the unfinished road to Hull. The neverending cash cow of asphalt pourers and blind surveyors this side of the Beauce.

Note to tourists: Despite the signage found from Ottawa to Buckingham.. said Hiway will never ever ever actually get you to Montreal without crossing into Ontario. Unless you have bear traps, a canoe or snow-shoes.

"Grr..", Sheena said. "Are we on the guest list".
"No", HeyfuckoffICanGetFifteenBucksAHeadForThisLineUpGuy informed me.
"Grr"... "OK, YOU drive". Sheena informed her Chauffeur du Soir, being the decision making forward looking strategist that she is.

Evening was an absolute delight. Bluegrass banjo/string/nose-picking to please the most jaded palate. Crowd evenly split between intense enthusiasts and yappy drunks who were just happy to be out of the house.

Challenge #2: Looking beyond Cousin Jeff. Sheena turned in amazement and barfitude to her compadres and said "OMG.. lookit the old guy pawing the teenage chick". Jailbait, as she was more commonly known, was storing a pack of smokes down her low-rise jean butt-crack and semi-pretending to be indignant at the Gino Vanelli/Michael Bolton cross breed grind-dancing with her to the dulcet strains of Aerosmith.

"Piss off Dad, you're crushin' my smokes", Sheena yelled, in her defence. Gawd. Nobody has a sense of humour anymore.