the Great Escape

I know it's been a while, but I managed to get out! Went to North Wales for half term. Terribly exciting - I could almost hear the theme from the Great Escape playing as we headed out of camp on our big adventure to the outside world (luckily as I was only visiting my sister I didn't have to paralell park/lock doors/talk coherently, so it all went v. well).
And talking of the Great Escape, it was one of the theme tunes played by the military band at our Valentine's dinner night last night. Along with the Corps marching thingy (which, wierdly, half the people there hummed along to).
Now I'm not one for big romantic gestures, but even so, I don't think spending the evening tapping my feet along to some oompah music would really get me in the mood for hot lurving.
(I may have married a military man, but in many ways their psyche remains a mystery.) Not that this was an issue as Hubby is still in Afghanistan, of course. I did take along a tall, dark, mysterious and invisible man called Tarquin as my chaperone. But he turned out to be gay (should have guessed, with a name like Tarquin). Its a bit sad when even your imaginary escort is a sexual disappointment. Still, Hubby can take comfort from the fact that I can't ever be unfaithful to him if even my fantasy men turn out to be homosexuals...
And continuing on the Great Escape theme, last week may well be my last escape for some time as the family car (or bread van, as it's known) has suddenly started making this wierd rinky dink woodpeckerish noise (yes, that is probably how I'll describe it to the mechanic tomorrow and he will sigh and roll his eyes and say something incomprehensible-yet-somehow-innuendo-ish like "Ooh, sounds like your big end's gone, luv"), so I am utterly unable to escape at the moment. I am just praying the car actually makes it to the garage without blowing up.
Haven't mentioned the rinky dink woodpeckerish noise to Hubby yet, who will no doubt make face number three at the other end of the phone (the Basil Fawlty one, not the angry seagull or Captain Mainwaring one). And I don't want to be left with the image of his deeply furrowed brow and manically bulging eyes when he takes a sharp intake of breath and tuts about how I always manage to break things.
Tarquin never does a Basil Fawlty face at me. But then again Tarquin is absolutely no good in the sack. Oh, and he's not real, either.
Guess I am stuck with a broken down people carrier and a husband with a face from a 1970s sitcom.