If you aren’t interested in boats – don’t go to THE BOAT SHOW.
If you are interested in people watching – go anywhere, even THE BOAT SHOW. You will not be disappointed.
My relationship with water is not as amicable as that I have with human beings. I trust humans. Water? Nah. It’s too deep, dark, full of fish, mysterious. On top of which you may drown. Though of all methods other than keeling over by natural causes I’d prefer to drown rather than, say, burn. From all I gather, drowning is serene, peaceful. BURNING? Why do you suppose hell is fire not water? Bet you never thought of that one.
Yes, so some people (particularly of a particular age and demographic) go on a cruise. Leaving aside the horror of being cooped up on what is essentially a hotel on unstable grounds how do these people sleep? Remember, noise is magnified in the depth and silence of the night. All that water lapping round the keel. Lovely. Who needs nightmares when you can just buy yourself a cruise?
I am convinced that people who go on cruises have a need to lull themselves in the sense of security money gives. Let those on the run drown somewhere off some god forsaken coast. What do they expect without a staff ratio of three to one per passenger? For heaven’s sake, keep perspective.
Fire and water, the other elements are earth and air. On the spur of the moment I’d say the last two are benign. Though, obviously, you wouldn’t say that if you sat on Mount Vesuvius when it has one of its turns, or being suffocated by a pillow, strangled or whatever – take your pick.
Have done the maths: There will be no babies in April 2014. It is so fucking hot.
To divert my attention from the pack of peas in the freezer I thought of Clint Eastwood. Good old Clinty. Like the guy. Those eyes.That smoke. Blondie. Yes. poor Blondie – being dragged through the desert. No water. His tormentor’s saving grace that (being Mexican) he was charming. And had such a dirty laugh. Yes, so here I am: Sleepless in Southampton. Fully observant how the body cools itself. Tries to cool itself. Honestly: I live two minutes (max), on foot, from the coast and there is no breeze. None whatsoever. Even the seagulls have gone quiet.
Which reminds me, apropos of nothing, of one of our cats. Yes, good old Bouncer. He was huge. Even when he was tiny. Hence his name. Most stupid cat I have ever known. Affectionate to the point of suffocating. He liked to sun himself. In half shade underneath a Clematis or a big bush of Lavatera. Then he fell off the flesh. From more than 8 kg to 3.5. Skin cancer. Irreparable. As I keep saying: His mother, my son’s first cat, had about 27 lives, Bouncer had 18, all used up, and then they died. Within a few months of each other. Both nine years old. Am beginning to sound like John. Who has promised to leave me Albert within the confines of his last will and testament.
Have realised that I am my father’s daughter and my son is my son: Our happy go lucky smiley optimistic selves will propel themselves forward till the camel’s back breaks and can go no further through the eye of the needle.
Cue irritation, shortly followed by sense of heightened potential for irritability.
One of the, untimely departed, cats (the one who was a dog in a previous life) was sensitive to a sudden dip in temperature (my mood). She’d bolt through the cat flap before I’d said a word. This minute I am so annoyed a stampede of wildebeests would look for a different route to bypass me.
I already pity my son, due back any minute, being subjected to my disenchantment with lack of hot water. I am trying to finish the washing up. And yes, I’ve checked the fuse.
Before my American readers, no doubt in full possession of a state of the heart Smeg fridge freezer (metallic finish), will utter so much as the word “dishwasher”: Don’t. My dishwasher (best of German engineering, unrivalled) and I were cruely separated on account of lack of space in new den’s kitchen. I don’t mind returning to the ancient art of washing dishes by hand. I have got Marigold gloves. Industrial strength. But I need HOT water.
Don’t send bucket. I prefer running.
PS Where are rats when your ship is sinking?
PPS Naturally, it’s Saturday. A bit like a toothache.
Bike Hike Babe, Jean, Looney and the con that Conrad has proven to be, gaelikaa and Ramana, Gail and Maynard (a match made in one of the ante chambers of hell): You better get your skates on and book a flight before the prices inflate. Magpie and Lady M can always visit my South Coast first and we’ll catch a cheap direct flight to Dublin from my local tiny airport. Nick can make his own way. Deb may tag along if she must. Ashok will have to put in a convincing plea to attend before I fork out for his ticket.
The eve of France’s national holiday is where it’s at this year. In a place in Ireland, disclosed in Grannymar’s Saturday post. She’d make a terrible spy. Can you imagine Mata Hari disclosing her whereabouts to the world on any particular day? No, neither can I.
I shall be the one arriving late, sporting a pair of dark sunglasses and a brooch of tiny knitting needles, Martini (two olives) in hand and generally be noticable by my absence. Further details to be found over at GM’s.
Wish you were all down here at today’s sunny beach, sardines on the skewers, sand in your sandals. Don’t worry if, during all those decades of your existence, you have never noticed the connection between ‘sand’ and ‘sandals’. The gift of being observant is rare.
Sunburnt air kisses,
PS Don’t forget to bring your kites for pre-Barbecue frolics. Hengistbury Head is famous for its wind. £16,000 will buy you a beach hut to make a cup of tea.
gaelikaa, my dance with Ramana is off. So there will be no photos for you to look forward to.
I rarely go into a sulky strop, in fact never: Which is why, now that I have, it is a rather illuminating experience for me. Ramana ticked me off earlier today regarding a perfectly reasonable answer to both his original post and GM’s response which I commented on in one wash [same comment box]. I am getting a little tired of all the sensitivity (few sensibilities) on some of the consortium’s blogs. Frankly, I have had it. I might as well plant a rhododendron on alkaline soil. It too won’t flourish.
I am miffed big time. Better stick to my usual playgrounds – so much more fun.
For all those not familiar with the meaning of my header: It’s sailors’ language. Look it up if you must or try it the next time you are aboard ship. You’ll soon get the drift.