Last night I went on that trip to the seaside I keep thinking about. The tourist centre cum-railway terminus was painted dark municipal blue and smelt of cheap paint and condensation. A single room off to one side was designated a museum, but the items in it were of such mind-numbing dullness that I can't name a single display; the coastal path was pretty enough but I set out late, and couldn't catch up with my friends, and besides, the weather was turning threatening, so I came back into town. There was quite a good view out across the bay, where masses of rainclouds were descending like grey veils, and the haze had spun the midday sun into a sickly yellow glow. The wind was getting up.
Abruptly, some of the clouds cleared, and outlined against the stormy yellow light were a mass of ships, all crowded together as if a giant hand had swept across the surface of the bay, pushing them before it and behind them the surface of the sea was sloping upwards into the clouds. As I tried to understand what I was seeing, the boats suddenly rose up and over a vast swell of glittering green-brown water, scored across by two huge diagonal waves, and heading straight for us.
I stopped looking, and headed fast across the concrete floor towards the rear doors. There were other people there; somebody's baby was squalling, but I didn't try to save it. The water hit before I got to the door, but I brought up my feet and kicked forward, and the swing-door swung and I landed in the car-park, where the water quickly ran away down the slopes and bunnies (it was one of those towns that's all hill).
There was a row of shops out back, and I had this thought about finding a petshop so I could warm myself up and find shelter at the same time as checking up on the animals, but the shops were all shut up. Goodness alone knows what had happened to the people out on the coastal path. I met Alastair and John (in Alastair's car) on the slippery cobbles of the main street; they were getting out of town, and offered me a lift. But the weather was getting worse, and, worried about how safe it would be to be in a car, I declined.
I ran into Damian on the road out of town; he was on a mission to save a rare piece of mossland habitat from a smallholder, so we had to do that before getting to shelter; I distracted the guy with chat about chickens, while Damian lifted a sample turf. I wrapped it in newspaper, and we went back to the main street (a steep slope that led up to the terminus, and the sea beyond) where I found my little sister George, aged 6, mucking around on the cobbles. The weather was getting worse.
It was one of those streets with houses right on it; to the disapproval of other people out in the street, I yanked open a door at random and pulled Damian and George inside and slammed the door behind us. As is common in such houses, there was a tiny porch, where we crouched with the wellies and junk mail while the sea ran down the slope outside. The house owners probably didn't even notice us. The worst of the water gone, we went looking for actual shelter, and found some gougy hotel with cheap red carpets where they'd probably charge us triple room-rate for a tiny crouching space.
Still, at least I'd saved George; important, as she's grown up and has kids of her own, now.
Hm, that reminds me of something. Do I have a recurring dream, now?
Speaking of nightmares, another of mine has recently come to London Zoo; The giant lizards are being housed at London Zoo in a purpose-built lair, and do glance over at "see also". Those wacky Komodo Dragons, always getting in trouble.
Got to an out-of-town party at the weekend, here's hoping it'll inspire me to do more. Ping brought strawberry-flavoured mini kit-kats, there was a blackbird nesting in the Virginia creeper, and Adrian and I disovered that (party host) waistcoatmark's barbecue was happy to carry on cooking, even in the pouring rain. Is it just me, or are trains really dirty nowadays?
"Are weblogs inherently “democratizing,” in the sense of giving voice to diverse populations of users? The empirical findings reported for gender and age at the beginning of this essay suggest that they are. Yet public commentators on weblogs, including many bloggers themselves, collude in reproducing gender and age-based hierarchy in the blogosphere" ... [continues]. (via green_amber)
Dark secrets. Well, ok, not that dark really.
Bert & Ernie's Gay Love Affair
Look, everyone knows you two are lovebirds. Why
not do the brave thing and admit it to the
world? The times are kinder nowadays. There
may be the odd ultraconservative bigwig or
overprotective mom, but so what? Piss on 'em.
Come on out of the closet. It's ok.
Which Sesame Street Muppet's Dark Secret Are You?
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