Hymn

Hellva Place

There’s an exciting route up this mountain: Striding Edge - a vertiginous ridge leading to the summit.  That was my path.  It’s quite exhilarating to have the wind whip up one side of the thousand foot cliff, blow you around like an overly-heavy and reluctant kite, then drop into the depths of the leeward face.  Makes you really conscious of being alive.

As a reminder of how vital the trail can be, there’s a small memorial commemorating the death of an earlier walker and the steadfast loyalty of his dog.  Inspired Wordsworth, apparently.  Which is odd, because swaying in the gale on top of the precipice, poetry wasn’t one of my priorities.

Out of Steam

S has had a lovely time exploring new things, or rather, discovering new places to sleep.  She’s slept on the Steamers, she’s snoozed through steam trains; she even dropped off while being carried around in a kangaroo-like pouch up mountains.  Which is great because it means she has lots of energy to scream at bedtime.

Old Knows

Why did all the old people on our boat have enormous noses?  Age seems to shrink almost every other aspect of life.  Not noses though.  Not on this ship.  Massive hooters.  Colossal beaks.  Gigantic honks.  And wrinkles.  Why? Who knows?

Wave

There’s something romantically old-fashioned about it: unbidden, undeserved and unexpected greeting from strangers.  Unknown faces waving across the water.  The same thing happens with drivers of classic cars.  But we’re not sailors.  Still, I’m not complaining.  To be honest though, the more enthusiastically I waved, the fewer responses I had.  Maybe it was the mist.

Gone Fishin

This must be the Thing To Do in these parts.  The Rebellious Thing.  The I-Don’t-Care Thing.  Three young men, just boys really but you can’t call them “boys”.  Hangin’.  Just Hangin’.  On the end of the pier.  Not a glamorously nasty seaside pier like Brighton Rock, a proper Make-the-Habour-Safe sort of pier, complete with barnacled old anglers.  They’d discarded their dead cans of Carlsberg on the steps and were carrying the remainder away: the bare-torso-ed one with sunburnt inverse muscle-vest pattern, the one in the shiny white trainers and dirty jeans and the one repeatedly picking his nose and wiping it on the sea wall.

Mirror

It’s not just women that flock to Baby S.  This afternoon we sat having a bite to eat with S sitting peacefully in her pram.  Our quiet repast fell to pieces with a piercing shout of “Scarlett” across the bar.  But it wasn’t our little girl being hallooed, no, it was a pretty red-headed toddler who was pulling the most grotesque faces at our bemused Little One.  It was as though our angel was gazing into one of those horrible Fun House looking glasses.

Magnet

I wish I’d known this earlier.  It’s amazing.   Truly amazing.  Carrying a baby and I’m a babe magnet.  It’s astonishing - girls can’t resist coming over to admire my beautiful little bambino.  They smile as they pass me in the street.  They wave.  Not obviously at me but I know that the baby is just an excuse for them.  Naturally T doesn’t mind at all and has agreed to walk 10 metres behind me and not cramp ‘my style.’  Or throw rocks at me.  You decide.

Hung

This is Man Country.  They couldn’t have said it any plainer than this monumental construction in the Gents.  It says ‘Yes, Boy, looks like a trough, don’t it?  If you can’t reach it, you ain’t got no business in here.  And if you’re not hung like a horse, you’re not welcome either.’  I got my coat.

Repeat

It was a very thorough introduction to the place - comprehensive but light-hearted - very professional all round.  But I began to suspect it wasn’t entirely spontaneous when the younger ones nudged each other moments before each punchline. “I’d like to introduce you to my best friend.  She’s been the restaurant manager since the beginning.  Now, Love, what’s your name?”  ‘Ha ha ha’ chorused the loyal but insincere reps.  New week.  New guests. Same old same old.

Resignation

Damn time.  Damn wriggly fluid-like thing.  It never ceases to amaze me how it can change its shape and size.  And how its elasticity is entirely unpredictable except for these truths - deadlines and pleasure are voracious; boredom pushes hours around the dinner plate of life like an unwanted Brussels sprout.  For a gleeful moment this afternoon, I actually thought I had a little bit more than I needed.  Of course, it was cruel illusion.  As quickly as I cleared a task, two more replaced it, as soon as one person was answered, three more appeared with questions and replies to email spawned Hydra-like responses.  In the end I could do just one thing.  Leave.  It’s not like I’ll lose any of those outstanding things - they’ll still be waiting for me when return to my desk.  Phew.