The sun came out in England today and I celebrated by drinking an entire pitcher of Pimm's.

I was going to write a witty and informative article today on ferro-concrete boats and our adventure last week to grim Grimsby to try and purchase one. Alas, the best laid plans... (I would finish the adage, but I'm too hungover to remember it).

The sun came out in England today. I first learned of this at about 8 am, when I was startled awake by a horde of bees. Our bed is under a window graced with bright yellow curtains. The bees apparently awoke from bee hibernation and decided to get some of that good, down home pollen before the rain comes back. Unfortunately, they thought the curtains were flowers and buzzed around my face for a while.

I'm quite ashamed to admit that I find bees a bit -- OK, alot -- scary. At one point, I jumped out of bed with a yelp and spilled water all over Simon. Amazingly, he just shot me an annoyed look, helped the bee out of the window and went back to sleep. I decided that getting under the duvet and hiding from the bees was my best course of action and also fell back asleep.

Somehow, it became nearly noon and we were still sleeping. (It's shocking, since we are such early risers.) Since we were supposed to meet our friend Marie for lunch at 12:30, we did get out of bed and we headed straight to the pub (the White Swan in Richmond). Beer for breakfast. Good start.

It was a beautiful day outside, so after lunch we wandered down the path along the Thames towards the White Cross (another pub in Richmond, about 500 meters away). We decided to grab a seat in the sun and look over the idyllic water, graced with ducks and flowers. As part of the warm afternoon ritual, a small glass of Pimm's sounded like just the thing.

Now, if you've never had Pimm's, I can't really describe it to you. It tastes kind of like a citrus, cola, long island iced tea, only it is made with just gin. It is easy drinking, but it can sneak up on you. After the first pitcher, all good judgment was lost. We must have been a sight to Marie's boyfriend, Mark, who joined us late afternoon and had a civilized beer.

The three of us put down three pitchers as the afternoon turned to evening. I don't know how. I don't know why. But I do know that I put away my equal share and that about halfway into it, I thought, "I can't participate in intelligent conversation anymore. I can't even understand what is being said, between Marie's southern accent, Simon's British accent, and Mark's Scottish accent." (I, of course, speak without an accent like Hollywood and God intended.)

But we enjoyed the sun quite a bit. Simon was attacked by another bee at one point and expected me to save him. It was then that I understood the irony of my fear. I have little fear of sailing across the ocean in a 40 foot yacht or rafting class five rapids, but I squeal like a five year old at the sight of a bee. I don't even think bee stings hurt that badly. I'm a rich tapestry of psychological contradictions. Marie commented, "you should get that sorted."

So, anyway, the whole point of this post is: (a) the sun in England is like a four-leafed clover and (b) I spent the entire day drunk, which I half (but not fully) regret, so I did not accomplish much. I think that it is English tradition to get loaded when the sun comes out though. They call it Sun Fawkes Day or something like that.