Honeymoon: Bard Night

I need to think about something pleasant, something fun, and I am sure y’all do too. Thus, I will continue with Tales of the Great Honeymoon 2013.

Around supper time Awesome, Da Bomb, myself, and Sweet Babou all met up with another friend I had only known through the interwebs – Lovely Lizzie and the Taurus of her dreams, Handsome Hubby.

We all immediately bonded like superglue (or at least I did; they may have been gagging for escape and I didn’t have an inkling).

Lovely Lizzie has more than her fair share of the magical element know as “charisma” (which is unfair because she is also pretty to look upon) and we were all thoroughly wrapped up by her charm within the first five minutes. Handsome Hubby was, and I mean this in a very complimentary way, the epitome of all things British Dudes should be according to Masterpiece Theater.  He was quiet, dignified, stood very straight, and spoke only occasionally – but when he spoke it was to utter something with such dry and profound wit that I fell down in hysterical laughter.

No wonder Lovely Lizzie married him. I would have followed him like a dog just to hear whatever sharply hilarious thing he would say next. He was a straight Stephen Fry with a unbroken nose. Even my Sweet Babou developed a serious anglophile man-crush.

Awesome and Da Bomb, living up to their monikers as ever, took us all to the Big Green Bookstore to hear a bard, The Traveling Talesman. Yes, he was a genuine bard with a genuine English accent. Sweet Babou and I were enthralled.

Fokker in London 138

The lady with the pink flower in her hair is Lovely Lizzie.

Fokker in London 142

I would have gone just to marvel at the ginger explosion growing from his head, but it so happened he was also an excellent teller of tales. There is YouTube video of it and if you listen closely you can hear the dulcet bray of my laugh in the background. Yes, I am the one who is laughing like a donkey with a goose up its butt. Sweet Babou loves me anyway.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5pVShXsVYhw&w=420&h=315]

Afterwards, we all took the underground back to the section of London our hosts’ cars were parked in. Upon this journey, I remembered a phrase I had heard used that I didn’t understand. Thus, I decided to ask Lovely Lizzie and Awesome about it. “What are ‘budgie smugglers’, exactly?” I queried in a loud, carrying voice that echoed throughout the subway car.

Ever seen British people trying not to laugh at something they didn’t mean to overhear?  It looks like they are trying to quietly give birth to squids from their armpits.

Lovely Lizzie patted my hand and with great aplomb assured me she would tell me very soon, somewhere a little less public. Awesome snorted and guffawed, the traitor.

Watching Awesome flop on the floor in mirth, I knew it was something semi-naughty that I had asked. I looked at Lizzie was imploring and quizzical eyes. Sighing deeply and realizing that I could not possibly wait, Lizzie told me, sotto voice, that “budgie smugglers” were very tight men’s briefs or bathing suits that revealed the outline of their genitalia.

“Aren’t budgies those little birds we call parakeets?” I asked, a bit perplexed.

“Yes,” Handsome Hubby answered gravely. “They have very round, smooth heads.”

That’s when I joined Awesome on the floor for a nice flop in the mirth.

Lovely Lizzie and Handsome Hubby had kindly opened their home to us for the night, and did not rescind the invitation even after they met us. This became nigh miraculous to Sweet Babou and myself when we arrived at their remodeled Victorian home in Greenwich and discovered that our uncultured butts were staying with posh people.

Lizzie's house

Their home was gorgeous and they were gracious and we were overawed hillbillies. After listening to me jibber about how I was gobsmacked with the posh, Lovely Lizzie did what any good English hostess would do to help me relax – she got me drunk.

I was coming down with a bad cold so she made me a special toddy involving orange juice, cinnamon infused brandy, hot water, and honey. It tasted, I swear, like Orange Bundt Cake. I spent the rest of the evening clutching it an cooing about how much I loved it. Also, softly giggling at jokes in my head that only I could hear.

God, we met such wonderful people in London.

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