I am done parenting for today. I have done more than enough of it, and it is time for a change of scene. So, in the spirit of abdicating one’s duties, I shall do some other stuff and not feel in the least bit bad. Provided there is no blood coming from anyone, I think that is all ok.
Right now, I should be reading my book in preparation for next week’s BookClub. But it feels like homework and so my old procrastination habits have been awoken. And, alas, the book in question has not led me to think of anything clever to say, nor have I uncovered any thematic nuances or really anything otherwise worthy of note – and my bookclub is FIERCE, full of Very Clever Ladies who will manage a spirited conversation of genius proportions. If anyone has read Night Train to Lisbon and has anything of note AT ALL to say about it, please share. Please.
Right. The Isle of Wight. I think it is prudent just to note that if we had decided to go to the Caribbean for the Easter holiday instead of the Isle of Wight, we would now be languishing there in the sun for about another month, owing to the Spiky Danger Ash. I am undecided about whether this is a good thing or a bad thing.
Anyway, The IOW. This is what it looks like:
and a bit like this:
with lashings of this:
and an an attempted squeeze of this:
While this here is the seawall at Seaview:
This is the practically tropical beach at Ryde:
And this is the sands at Ventnor beach. Note the winter coat is still on.
Time for ditty. It has been awhile since I attempted songwriting. Ahem.
Oh Isle of Wight,
You are so close
To London. If only we had known.
You are very accesible by ferry.
Do do do.
You are quite sunny
A bit beachy and farmy too,
With thatched cottages in villages serving cream teas
With tourist coaches taking up the public parking.
Do do do.
You have a Tesco open 24 hours
Which seems a little much
But your pubs have playgrounds
And nice glasses of Pimms,
Although you do have too many chips.
In other unrelated news, the NZ Model Drought has BROKEN! She spoke to me, and I was intoxicated by her marvellously decaying grandeur. She smelt of cigarettes, fabulous perfume which overtook the garden, and wore a hat in which to shield her alabaster skin from the spring sun. So cool I nearly buckled at the knees. But I recovered my composure and we bonded over our feral children. She left the garden leaving a huge stack of European fashion magazines which I later nicked. We are bound together, I just know it.