“I love the sound of breaking waves”

Even small waves sound great on pebbly beaches
as they crunch and splash and sizzle.
I'll tell you what doesn't sound nearly as great:
when Gallows sing with Lethal Bizzle.

Not that I have a problem with Gallows;
it's the Bizzle who's troubling for me.
I just don't think that the sounds he makes
are as cool as those of the sea.

Holiday stories, part 3

So, yeah, we were at Isola Bella, and it was wicked. Then this happened:



Can you imagine? Shoes. Washing away. Talk about drama!

Then we went for a boat ride around Isola Bella. I've got some cool footage of that too, and I'll upload it soon. I haven't even taken it off the tape and on to my hard drive yet, but maybe over the weekend I'll get around to it.

It was totally awesome. I wore my bandana and looked just like a pirate, specifically I looked just like Johnny Depp. Proper gorgeous I was. We got to this amazing patch of still, clear water (which all of it is) and the skipper turned off the engine and said, in Italian: "Have a swim if you like." There was an older English couple who didn't understand what he said and they were concerned about what was going on.

"I think he said we could have a swim," said the man to his wife.
"Is he joking?" asked the wife of her man.

But I guess they found that he wasn't when people started jumping in. Several people had a go. The water, he told us, was about 30m (100ft) deep. But it was soooo clear that Red could see her feet as she trod water. Insania!

I'm not a great swimmer, and by the time I'd plucked up the balls to have a splash around -- after Red had told me how salty it was, and so how it would be impossible to drown! -- the skip turned the engine back on. Oh well.

After the trip was over we headed for a bite to eat at an unassuming little beachside restaurant. We both ordered seafood dishes, and while we were eating, the waiter came over to the table next to us with three or four fish in his hands. "Which one would you like?" he asked them. "They were caught ten minutes ago by that guy over there," he added, pointing to a fisherman fiddling around with his boat. The fish was that fucking fresh it was alive just minutes earlier! Man... Sicily is rockin' it old school, no doubt.

Smells like the beach

I say it a lot recently, but I really don't know where the time goes. I don't have time to blog; I don't have time to work (!); I don't have time to watch movies or write reviews. And I have had very little time to visit all my blogpals, so MASSIVE APOLOGIES to you all, but I'm trying to make good.

Anyway... today I will work. I have a lot to do. The frustrating thing about work is that some clients piss you about. And when you get pissed about and screwed over, it makes you feel like not working on people's jobs, y'know? But I've got to, so I will.

I must say, though, I feel a bit queasy. Last night I had Indian food for the first time since my food-poisoning episode. And we ate it with some Prosecco (Italian sparkling wine; Champagne and Prosecco go great with Indian, in case you don't know). This was also the first alcohol to have passed my lips in more than a week. I feel delicate. Not ill; not relapse stylee. Just "maybe I shouldn't have done it"-ish. But you gotta get back on the horse sometime, right? So I saddled up, baby...!

What a great weekend it was, though, here in the southeast of England. Red said to me on Friday night, "Let's go to Whitstable tomorrow, since it's going to be so lovely." I agreed. We often go to Whitstable on a weekend for a constitutional stroll to get some blood moving through our veins. What she meant -- and what I didn't fully realize until we got there (don't ask why; I'm an idiot. And it led to some degree of upset) -- was to spend the whole day. Like going for a day at the seaside. Despite my being ill prepared, we made the most of a bad lot and enjoyed it while we were there.


Since Sunday was due to be nice, we made a pact to do it again properly the next day. In the United States they have a great term that we don't seem to use here in the UK: "do-over". I'm a big fan of the do-over. Something goes wrong, hell, let's have a do-over, and this time we'll get it right. And get it right we did on Sunday!


We took the parasol from the garden, a couple of bath towels, appropriate head gear (Red's Yankees baseball cap and my trusty tattoo-style bandanna, instead of the shirt I used on Saturday, seen in the pic at top), swimwear, and just enough money to buy lunch, and off we set. We didn't take the camera because we wanted to spend some time in the water. It's a shame in hindsight, because it is nice having photos of when you're being dorks! It was a fun day out.

Whitstable's beach is a pebbly beach, and it is painful as hell walking to and from the sea. It's also amazing how shallow and deep the water gets. During the mid-morning we commented how safe it is for children, since you have to walk for miles in the water to get even your ankles wet; but after lunch it was impossible to touch the seafloor after just a few feet.

I had ice cream! And I wore my black Chuck Taylors in the sea (picture by Red below). I had no other footwear, and the pebbles were slaying me, man. Red says, "You can't not come in just because it's painful. Put your shoes on." She was right. (It's not just that it was painful. I have got the most sensitive soles of feet in Christendom, I swear. My feet cannot be touched. I will accidentally kick you in the face if you touch my feet. Accidentally, mind.)


So, two days on the beach. And I got a little burned, but only really around my feet, so that's okay.

On Friday I guess I must have worked some. I also watched the previous week's episode of The Shield in preparation for that night's. I love The Shield. And I finished reading my book (more on that soon). We also laughed about the dorks we made of ourselves with Eamonn at The Globe. I dunno what else...

Oh yeah, and here are some pics I promised from The Globe.


Desdemona and Othello alive and well and gettin' jiggy with it at the curtain call.


The stage at The Globe.


Eamonn humouring two adoring fans -- i.e., Red and me. (He's much more smiley over here at Red's blog.)


An autographed programme.