One Wedding, Two Waterfalls and Way Too Much Wine: Devon Delights and Cornish Charms

We had a long drive to Devon on Friday for my cousin’s wedding, so I decided to go to bed early the night before, I thought an hour or so extra sleep would do me good. Of course, my body had other ideas. I hadn’t accounted for my usual 3–4 a.m. wake-up so after some unsuccessful attempts at getting back to sleep I got up.

I had a few bits I needed to do before we left so I thought I would use the extra time to clear out the fridge of out-of-date food. This escalated to me emptying the entire fridge and scrubbing it clean at 5 am. I finally sat down at 6:30, exhausted, I wondered if I should try and have a little nap but my brain was far too busy for that.

Despite wanting to leave at midday to avoid traffic, we left at 2:15 hitting traffic almost immediately. I was practising deep breathing as we inched our way off of the A2, trying to navigate our way onto the M25 when a huge lorry decided to drive across the roundabout blocking all traffic. I exploded, I wanted to leap out of the car, drag him out of his cab and call him out for being a selfish pr*ck. This rage is becoming too bloody much.

A while later we make our first stop at some services, we haven’t eaten so we decide to grab something from McDonald’s. I’m still riled, my anger is simmering beneath the surface waiting for some slight to occur.

I use the self-service machine and of course, my receipt doesn’t print, I mutter every swear word I know under my breath and head towards to the counter tell a member of staff. After standing at the counter for a few minutes, being ignored whilst the staff chat amongst themselves, I call someone over and explain that I don’t have a receipt and my order number is not showing on the screen and they quickly print out my receipt.

By now the husband has joined me as I glare angrily at the screen, which still isn’t showing my order number. I feel like the pink slime from Ghostbusters 2, bubbling at the slightest emotion, ready to boil over. I eventually hand the receipt to the husband and say I’m going to sit in the car before I lose my sh*t.

I go to the car and have a little cry. I am fully aware that my anger is irrational but I think if anyone dared to say that I would punch them. I can’t seem to control it, and the fact that I know it’s irrational makes me more angry. The husband returns, I explain all of this to him and we get…