Having taken the vow to spread typografik enlightenment to the world (and selected areas of the Isle of Wight), I go about my role as High Priestess of the Helvetica with great gravitas and dignity, (every single psychiatrist I have ever had can corroborate this). Occasionally, however, I will turn to Mr S. and gaze into his expectant upturned face (he's very short) and smiling, gently whisper, 'today Mr S. we shall venture forth from the mountaintop confines of the Temple of typografika (just above the council landfill if you ever fancy popping in) and mingle with the mortals beyond'
'Oh not bloody Asda again' he will exclaim.
'No Mr S.- to realms beyond even there!'
He is so shocked he almost drops his Calpol and Soda (his cocktail of choice these days).
'Is it a long trip, shall I pack my spare pants and Fiery Jack?' he asks.
'That may be necessary Mr S. for I think it is time to venture forth - with the offspring!!
Mr S. is very highly strung, so when he's stopped sobbing and pleading to be excused on account of his mental health being in a precarious state after the last trip, I help him up off the floor and take pity on him (I'm a merciful kinda priestess) and make my way with our darling children and a temperamental Scenic down the treacherous mountain pass, to the bustling hinterlands below.
And so begins the school holidays, dodging the rain, filling every nanosecond with activities and new places to go; constantly topping up the offspring with industrial quantities of food that would make Jabba the Hutt look like he had an eating disorder and organising play-dates with their friends that could rival the D-day landings in logistical complexity.
We give the National Trust membership a hammering and they must like the cut of our gib(jib?) the NT posse, as they turn the sun on for us on all our visits (the NT have a secret switch at every property whereby they can turn on the sun if they like the look of you, or not, if they' re feeling a bit peevish. It's often been torrential rain for us in the past, due to us squashing our vowels in a nasty working class manner, or there was that time with the blizzard when Mr. S. had split an infinitive in the Great Hall, which in his defence he can't help, if he's had a balti the night before).
We also went to do some sandblasting, of glass, rather than the large grimy building variety, though the experience may yet prove useful should the temple need a quick buff up. This was highly popular, especially with offspring minor, who after the realisation that a full pirate sea battle was a bit unfeasible in terms of cutting out masking with safety scissors, came up with the design below.
As you can see he is ready to take on the mantle of typografik enlightenment should the need arise, for dear brethren of the typeface, as times winged chariot hurtles down the outer lane of the M6 of time, and the threads of silver show more boldly in his dear Mama's raven tresses (which is now, really, as I'm desperate for my colour to be done, but the hairdresser can't get her Micra up the treacherous mountain pass), for now at least he can take over, I'm going to have a lie down, these holidays wear me out.