We arrived at our temporary home on Friday evening. I was blissfully happy curled up in an armchair, knocking back glass after glass of red wine, giggling about things that might have been funny (probably not if your sober). …later we all settled down in our sleeping bags, just about to drop off, when it started. BOBS BLOODY SNORING!!! We were downstairs and he was sprawled on the top landing, yet still his guttural rumblings managed to deprive me of sleep. Saturday morning hit us like a tonne of bricks. (a metric one). 50 million decibels of Iron Maiden, with obscure rantings about "The Beast" (well a beast you'll have to join the club to see THE beast) and "666", suddenly thundered through the lounge - wonderful. Canoeing day number one on the river Greta was less than a success for the beginners, myself and Graham. I clambered back on to the bank after 10 meters or so, suffering from heebie jeebies. Graham seemed more confident and persisted until the very end. (and it nearly was to). Unfortunately for him, he became entangled with a tree which had chosen this of all days to pass out on in the river. It was a relief to get back to the house and two gigantic pans of simmering hot curry, washed down with a couple of beers - mmm, lovely and unhealthy. (but who said we were healthy). That night I had the honor (dubious as it was) of trying the "hero". A concoction of Red Bull, Cider and Vodka - highly recommended to any loopy juice addict out there. Canoeing day two, the river Kent, which has its fair share of rapids, stoppers and drops - to be tackled only by the most thrill seeking amongst us (even if they do scream like girls, you know who you are, Jamie). Then back to Manchester.