A Little Town Called Bedford

Bedford.

Never heard of it?

Neither had I until my sister decided it was high time she moved to the other side of the world and live their.

Having heard in long, laborious details about the extensive nothingness of Bedford I still visited. For a couple days at that.

She lied to me. My sister that is. Bedford may be a very small town but it was picturesque as all hell. A beautiful embankment with a plush pub (The Embankment) right on the water front. Cobbled streets and ancient buildings, night clubs and fast food open at three am. What more could a person ask for? 

And it was Christmas, which in England means decorations. Everywhere. That's one thing they do right, their Christmas decorations. 

Sitting, drinking in a beautiful pub surrounded with people you don't know all that well is surprisingly enjoyable. Especially when you're waiting for fireworks. Fireworks to celebrate the turning on of the Christmas lights. Nothing more then in the honour of flipping a switch. Or a button. Or leaver, depending on their turning on methods. It was a beautifully loud sight while shivering in the beyond brisk air.    

 Magic.

Everything in England seems to be tainted wonderfully with Magic. But maybe That's my Rose tinted glasses talking.

One thing I know about small towns, they do their clubs right. Good booze and good music are always the combination for a memorable night, that is if you do indeed remember it. It's not the scale of the club that's important. Though admittedly it does help. 

I had a good night in a town called Bedford. Drink. Dance. And cheesy chips at three in the morning. Drinking games back at the apartment only to see the sun rise and break through the drawn curtains that morning.

Fuzzy Duck. Ducky Fuzz. Fuzzy Duck. Duck Fuzzy...Drink.