The meeting

So, contrary to popular opinion and the large wagers placed by my friends, I have survived the meeting with my girlfriend's father. With at least 12 hours still to go I don't want to get too cocky, but thus far the experience has been remarkably free of thrashings, beatings or any other form of the sort of violence that can easily add an awkward element to such occasions.
I was fully expecting, after several weeks of being mercilessly tortured with exagerated claims of the man's beastly character, to be welcomed not with a cup of tea, but to be forced to my knees with a shotgun in my mouth. In fact though, I've been quite taken with the guy. The continuous smoking of filterless, high tar cigarettes and barked threats to small, passing children add an appreciable air of charm to the old fella. Listening to the radio just now, and the pained sobs of an obese woman who was blaming the untimely death of her husband for her weight gain, he brilliantly quipped 'sit on him did you?'. As well as heartless cynicism, we've also found common ground in abusing the lady who has brought me to him. Most of the last couple of days has been spent with us cackling and delivering barbed jokes at her expense, with the odd congratulatory high five once her back is turned.

The only real issue with the visit has been the utter remoteness in which he lives combined with the monsoon conditions which have swept the country, as has become traditional whenever we return. The first signs of trouble emerged on the infinite train journey down here. I had been somewhat prepared for the endless nature of the journey, but thought this would be offset by the pleasant nature of the stroll through English countryside, which in my head was to take place on an old-timey train, possibly steam driven, but definitely with a pipe smoking gentleman in the same carriage who would offer cider and regale us with stories of scrumping apples in his impoverished youth.
In reality, we were met with the full force of a shit storm of an intensity that can only have been mustered throughout human history by British rail and possibly the Nazi party at it's worst. The train we were excruciatingly lugged here by was certainly ancient, but more in a way that instilled a fear it was about to collapse into pieces, killing or maiming everyone on board, than in any pleasant sense. Our fellow passengers didn't share anything other than terrible music played through mobile phones and the vague threat that we might be stabbed at any moment.

After what seemed like decades, we finally limped into the end of the line, and disembarked bearded, clothes tattered, desperate for food and water. What greeted us was a level of civilisation not seen outside of Mordor. Simply put, there's nothing here. We went for a walk earlier, through the pouring rain, and got genuinely excited to see another person. They actually waved at us. You'd be institutionalised if you did that in London.

For the most part though, our visit has comprised of sitting around a fire, looking at the rain streaming down the window and wondering when would be an acceptable time to start drinking.