If you had to make a list of things you shouldn't do when you meet your friend's husband for the first time, you'd probably want to include throwing yourself at them wouldn't you? It is a fairly obvious point to make. It is also a point I chose to ignore this weekend.
We had spent a lovely afternoon on the beach, paddling in the sea (surprisingly warmer than anticipated), laying around sunbathing and playing a rather bizarre game of rounders in which there appeared to be no teams and where the bases were, in fact, flip flops. It was lovely.
When we decided we had had enough (ie. when it got a little too chilly to continue the pretence that this was a good day to spend on the beach), MJ and her lovely husband AJ offered me and Mr B a lift home. They have a very old version of a VW Golf, which they like to pretend is a much newer model with no power steering (designed to improve muscle tone), no central locking (a brand new security feature) and a large dint down the side (a key feature of the "go-faster" sports model).
When we arrived home, MJ and AJ got out of the car to say good bye and give us both a hug goodbye. As I went to hug AJ, I stumbled, stood on his foot and flew forward, head-butting his chest and making a rather large fool of myself.
I literally threw myself at him. I blame the sports car ... I just couldn't resist.
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