I’m sorry I didn’t post much last week–I was on holiday. Nice, relaxing, lovely lovely holiday away from Poowich and the daily grind. A romantic holiday with my husband…and his family.
Scene: Jet-setting stylish red-lipped expat off to the french seaside in a fabulous hat!
On the first day, I was under the impression that we were all going to the beach. You know the beach–that lovely place with sun, sand, and ocean breezes located 5 minutes from our hotel?
Well, it’s super close by, I thought as I prematurely pulled on my swimsuit under my dress, slapped on my flip-flop torture devices, and popped some light beach reading in my tote bag (1500 pages of 19th century Russian literature about war and peace).
It was hot as hell, my bangs obviously frizzing off my forehead, but I knew it was okay because we were just 5 minutes away from the cool cool salty water at the charming lovely beach. I saw it, it was in my grasp, at my finger tips! And then suddenly, the group made a right turn. Away from the beach.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked with trepidation.
‘To the lighthouse,’ they all said.
After I had been stumbling down the scorching paved breezeless path for nearly a mile, I saw this lighthouse in the distance. The very very far far away distance. Like miles and miles away.
As the afternoon sun beat down on my lily white back, it slowly dawned on me that earlier when we were all waiting around in a cafe for hours and hours with no one eating–that was lunch. There would not be another opportunity for sustenance. That was it.
I gazed wistfully at everyone else’s sneaker clad feet as I flip-flopped around in pools of my own blood.
I attempted to feign laughter and conversation (some might claim I didn’t hide my dissatisfaction very well but that’s obviously total bollocks), all the while hoping that a piano would just miraculously fall on my head and end it all.
5.5 miles later, we rocked up to the goddamn lighthouse. I guess. I don’t know. I couldn’t see anything through the mingled sweat and tears blinding my eyeballs.
Ah but refreshment was in sight!
A warm, iceless European Diet Coke.
Happy Summer Holidays!
I think this Weekes Word is simply beautiful, unlike me when I am hot and dying.
Rime: from Old English ‘hrim’ (Germanic) revived at the end of the 18th century and meaning frost. It can also be used as a verb–as in to cover [an object] with hoarfrost. Ex: As Weekes made her way to the lighthouse in the midday sun, she dreamed of her body being rimed from head to toe.
xWG // #dazeandweekes