The day I went to Hell and back. Literally.

Me escaping from Hell/Hel - disguised as Frank Sinatra in Von Ryan's Express.

No really. This really is about the day I really went to Hell and back. Literally. (And I use that term advisedly.)*

I’ve mentioned Hell before, but I’m only telling you about this at the request of the Loose Bloggers Consortium (you can find their links if you scroll down the right hand side column), who are focussing on travel troubles.

And I think getting kicked out of Hell qualifies. In fact, Hell couldn’t hold me.* *

Going there in the first place seemed like such a good idea at the time. Unique destination. Bit quirky. Warm, though not quite as warm as we’ve all been led to believe

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Euphemisms for… ahem… you know…

Death in the North is different. We don’t like to acknowledge the event. Down South they’re weeping and wailing and partying round the coffin.

But up North we don’t like to talk about it.

We come up with euphemisms instead.

He’s tatey bread