George and I had saved our pennies to attend the Blogger’s Bash. It was exciting, as apart from the mammoth journey to get there it would avail us the opportunity to rub shoulders with the elite of the blogging world.
We had researched the venue, watched the video from the previous year, noting the various celebrities we would like to make contact with.
The week before George made mention of the Royal wedding happening at the same time.
He wondered if we could steal away from the Bash and have a look at the wedding. George was of the belief that he had descended from Royalty. A very distant Aunt had given birth to an equally distant Baron, from that child and through many generations George had been born.
He set to work studying train timetables to discover the most efficient route from the Bash to the wedding.
I did suggest watching it on television like everyone else, but he argued we’d come so far why not make an effort
George had a soft spot for Harry whom he thought was a pretty good bloke and at the same time thought Megan was a bit of all right.
“How hard would it be,” he said, “to stand in the street and see them drive by?”
As it turned out it was impossible. We stood twenty deep on a corner where the wedding car went by in a flash.
“But we were there,” he argued, proudly displaying the Union Jack he found on the ground after the cavalcade went by.
Back at the Blogger’s Bash we were missed, especially as George had won the short story prize and as he wasn’t in attendance it was awarded to Gustav Plastine, of Iceland, the second placed entry.
Word Count – 294