Manchester / Ipswich.

When people ask me when I'm next going to update my blog, or complain that I haven't in a while, or act surprised when they go onto my page and there's nothing new, I must admit, I do get a slight feeling of self importance - a little wave of pride that my life entertains at least one other person. For everyone who has been giving me that feeling for the past few weeks, thankyou, as wrong as that sounds. Here is an update to fulfill your need to laugh at the fact that someone else gets life more wrong than you do.

First off, let me just say that if you've never been on a pointless minibreak to somewhere ridiculously Northern, please go. Immediately.

Our trip to Manchester began when my Dad decided to go galavanting off to France, as he does occasionally. If your parents dislike each other as much as mine do, you will understand that if one of them goes on holiday, the other will most likely attempt to top it, even if it's merely subconsciously. This is how we ended up staying at the MacDonald hotel.

From the name, I was either expecting to be greeted with a barn or a Big Mac when we checked in. Instead we received keys to a huge room on the top floor, complete with a plasma screen TV, Bose iPod dock, a bathroom the size of my entire house, and a panoramic view of the city centre - I kid you not. Breakfast each morning was a buffet of pastries, cereals and cooked food. We spent our entire time shopping. My wallet was completely wiped out. And we'd only been there two days.

This is how we ended up spending the rest of our break in Ipswich.

Jump forward to Thursday. It's pouring with rain and we're driving out of the hotel as my iPod runs out of battery. Our plan is to stop off in Ipswich for two days, to visit my Aunt, Uncle and cousins. We've been driving for three hours, we're heading in the completely wrong direction, we can see signs to Warwick, my Mum is freaking out, and I'm dying for the loo. This is roadtrip hell.

Jump forward two hours and we're arriving at the rellies' house. An awkward dinner ensues, followed by a conversationless hour or two watching TV, before we finally head off to our next hotel. But this is no MacDonald.

The Novotel is... basic. Not as basic as Travelodge, and definitely not as basic as Etap. But basic. The television appears to be programmed to only operate in Dutch. My bed creaks when you sit on it. The toilet is in a separate room to the washbasin (for some reason, this totally freaks me out.) I miss Manchester.

Jump forward again to the next day. Kezz and Ross are meant to be picking me up for tobogganing at 10am, but I've been wheezing and coughing all night. We sit in Reception pondering what to do for a while before heading back to Kezz's via Tesco for a picnic and DVD marathon. Jump forward to Ross and I in Kezz's bed, with her new puppy trying to pin us down and lick our face. Jump forward to us promptly deciding to leave the bedroom and head off on an adventure across the fields. Jump forward to me falling off a fence into a row of stinging nettles.

WOAH, WOAH, WOAH! Jump back!

Brooke did something which required minor physical activity?

Yes. And this is why Brooke does not go out climbing more often.

It's one thing trying to climb onto a fence when you're wearing a skirt. It's another thing trying to climb a fence when you've got a video camera being waved in your face. It's another thing altogether trying to climb a fence when you're one of the clumsiest people you know. (Note: Do I technically 'know' myself? Whatever.)

So I slip and I graze my legs and I sting my hand and I bash my head and I feel all dizzy. We're laying on the mud inspecting my injuries and the state of my new leather-ish jacket. We decide it's about time we got heading back. Kezz has to catch a train to her band's gig in London, and I need to get back for more awkward family bonding time, where we discover that, as always, nothing at all has happened in our family since Christmas time. We walk through a field of cows who are eyeing up my jacket suspiciously. I retreat back to the Novotel. We retreat back home. It takes four hours.

And there you have it. Pretty much everything you have missed in my life due to my lazy blogging pattern. Apart from one minor detail - tomorrow is A Level results day. Eek.