I have been blessed with a husband who hails from Greater Manchester. While his Lancastrian tones and dry sense of humour are really rather lovely, the distance we have to travel to see his equally lovely family is less appealing.

On a good day, it can take as little as five hours to get up to the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine’s home town from our house in Devon. On a bad day, however, we are talking eight hours plus. Eight hours. In a car. With a three year old who “GOT WEE! GOT WEE! MUMMY!” every hour or so. It’s not pretty.  Continue reading »