After a long week at work, Whitney and I are staying in a bed and breakfast across Cape Cod for a few days to celebrate our anniversary, in what's the first non-stressful-looking holiday that we've taken together in the last two years. After going across on a high-speed catamaran that travelled at least a few times faster than I was aware boats could go, we dragged our luggage up to a place that I promise you is called Snug Cottage.







I had developed a strange craving for fish and chips over the day - you never miss things like that until they're no longer available. So that was what we hunted for during the evening - after wandering down the main street avoiding the surprising number of people dressed in drag and huge wigs, we eventually found a hole in the wall type place that had them. While not being the Scottish article, the breaded flounder that I had was reasonable, though the Americans showed that they were really yet to get the idea by not providing any salt on them. So after that we looked around a bit more before going back to our room to look forward to a few days of lazily enjoying the sun on the beach.

As it happens there's a gigantic thunderstorm outside as I write this, with half the bay pouring down and huge explosions from the sky, and the power is going in and out, so we're instead hiding in our room. Looking up the weather on Whitney's new iPod of smugness shows a similar situation for the next few days we're staying (I apologize for how awful the picture is, but I couldn't think of anything other than the amazingly convoluted method of taking a phone photo of its screen, sending it to the online album, then downloading and trimming it). Monday will be stormy, Tuesday might be all right, and Wednesday will be raining. On Thursday it appears to indicate that the sun will rain, surely signalling the apocalypse. So it should be a decent British holiday.