Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Mushaboom
“Would you rather,” asked Girlfriend, a worried expression on her face, “find yourself 1) sitting helplessly on top of a fountain, with your head banging repeatedly against the ceiling? Or 2) being sucked down a vortex through the plughole?”
Tough call. We passed the morning in the jacuzzi bath in a state of mild anxiety, hanging onto each others ankles for dear life. It kept going off for no good reason!
We had a lovely, lazy day, sitting out on the deck mostly, reading and that. We listened to some local singers and I caught up with my notes. It was T-shirts and barefoot warm, but you could see snow on the Olympus Mountains across the water.
In the evening, we drove down the dirt track -
"How many acres, how much light? Tucked in the woods and out of sight. Talk to the neighbours and tip my cap, on a little road barely on the map. Oh! Old dirt road! MushaBOOM!"
- back onto West Side, round the bendy bits for a few miles as far as Lime Kiln Point Lighthouse. Sometimes whales come right up to the shore, and you can reach out and tickle their tummies, but sadly not tonight.
We hung around waiting until sunset, then made our way back through the creepy woods, rushing blurrily past the slightly sinister looking woodsmen’s huts. Dinner was beer and nachos again.
We watched a video of Sleepless In Seattle, playing ‘spot the places we’ve just been to,’ which wasn’t very many.
The story goes: Meg Ryan hears recently widowed Tom Hanks on talk radio show, becomes obsessed, stalks him, callously dumps goofy fiancé Walter.
I won’t say any more to spoil the ending, but it was a turgid load of crazed-fanaticism-masquerading-as-romantic-fulfilment bollocks, with Meg and Tom inevitably walking hand in hand into the sunset, all thanks to Hanks’ vomit-inducingly schmaltzy idiot son, and poor innocent Walter - he can’t stop sneezing! - heartlessly brushed aside and forgotten about.
“That was a load of rubbish,” said Girlfriend as the credits rolled, and I agreed.
The next day I discovered she was being ironic. She certainly is a complex and bewitching woman.
Breakfast shot: Strawberries, napkins and posh crockery.
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Tough call. We passed the morning in the jacuzzi bath in a state of mild anxiety, hanging onto each others ankles for dear life. It kept going off for no good reason!
We had a lovely, lazy day, sitting out on the deck mostly, reading and that. We listened to some local singers and I caught up with my notes. It was T-shirts and barefoot warm, but you could see snow on the Olympus Mountains across the water.
In the evening, we drove down the dirt track -
"How many acres, how much light? Tucked in the woods and out of sight. Talk to the neighbours and tip my cap, on a little road barely on the map. Oh! Old dirt road! MushaBOOM!"
- back onto West Side, round the bendy bits for a few miles as far as Lime Kiln Point Lighthouse. Sometimes whales come right up to the shore, and you can reach out and tickle their tummies, but sadly not tonight.
We hung around waiting until sunset, then made our way back through the creepy woods, rushing blurrily past the slightly sinister looking woodsmen’s huts. Dinner was beer and nachos again.
We watched a video of Sleepless In Seattle, playing ‘spot the places we’ve just been to,’ which wasn’t very many.
The story goes: Meg Ryan hears recently widowed Tom Hanks on talk radio show, becomes obsessed, stalks him, callously dumps goofy fiancé Walter.
I won’t say any more to spoil the ending, but it was a turgid load of crazed-fanaticism-masquerading-as-romantic-fulfilment bollocks, with Meg and Tom inevitably walking hand in hand into the sunset, all thanks to Hanks’ vomit-inducingly schmaltzy idiot son, and poor innocent Walter - he can’t stop sneezing! - heartlessly brushed aside and forgotten about.
“That was a load of rubbish,” said Girlfriend as the credits rolled, and I agreed.
The next day I discovered she was being ironic. She certainly is a complex and bewitching woman.
Breakfast shot: Strawberries, napkins and posh crockery.
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