grrrrr. aaargh. Catapult.
Sunday, 19 November 2006 06:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
freckles_and_doubt'Tis that time of year again! the annual, horrible, always unanticipated stupid big run thing which comes pounding past my bedroom window, two metres away from my head, at 6am on a Sunday. It comes with thumping feet, panting, talking, laughing and other expressions of masochistic dysfunction and the cheerfully sadistic impulse to spread it around to the less energetic. I spend the first ten minutes lying in bed wistfully wishing I was on the roof with a catapult*, and then I give up and get up. Of all the stupid side effects of my stupid body, the one where I can't get back to sleep again once I've woken up is possibly the most annoying.
Sleep was particularly necessary because of yesterday's trip out to the Strandloper, the beach-style fish restaurant up the West Coast, another in the line of Tinnimentum-entertainments with jo&stv. It's a pleasant drive, and a lovely, laid back, make-do sort of atmosphere. Seven courses of seafood and one of lamb, off paper plates, with mussel shells for utensils, sitting on concrete tables on the sand under shelters made from weathered bits of boats. The "shipwreck" ambiance is possibly taken a tad too far, I kept bumping my head on random floats hanging from the ceiling. Which is, incidentally, shadecloth, upon which the shadows of the gulls make lovely patterns. Very relaxed sort of day, with the cumulative effects of sea air, wind, sand, food, wine and sun sending us shambling back to town in a sort of pleasantly zombified state, to fall into bed at about 9pm, zonked.
Am v. proud of my self. I ate mussels! In garlic. By dint of closing my eyes and refusing to look at all the wriggly intestinal bits.
I also stood on a rock and recited Ted Hughes, for additional pretentious academic cred. "Wind", possibly my favourite poem of all time ever. ... The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope ... At any second to bang and vanish with a flap... a black-/ Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. I love watching gulls in a strong wind, they make beautiful patterns in the air. Strandloper has a large population of enormous, glossy birds who live on the pickings from the restaurant, and presumably conduct an ongoing brutal turf war to keep lesser birds out.
* the Evil Landlord's contribution: "Caltrops."
Sleep was particularly necessary because of yesterday's trip out to the Strandloper, the beach-style fish restaurant up the West Coast, another in the line of Tinnimentum-entertainments with jo&stv. It's a pleasant drive, and a lovely, laid back, make-do sort of atmosphere. Seven courses of seafood and one of lamb, off paper plates, with mussel shells for utensils, sitting on concrete tables on the sand under shelters made from weathered bits of boats. The "shipwreck" ambiance is possibly taken a tad too far, I kept bumping my head on random floats hanging from the ceiling. Which is, incidentally, shadecloth, upon which the shadows of the gulls make lovely patterns. Very relaxed sort of day, with the cumulative effects of sea air, wind, sand, food, wine and sun sending us shambling back to town in a sort of pleasantly zombified state, to fall into bed at about 9pm, zonked.
Am v. proud of my self. I ate mussels! In garlic. By dint of closing my eyes and refusing to look at all the wriggly intestinal bits.
I also stood on a rock and recited Ted Hughes, for additional pretentious academic cred. "Wind", possibly my favourite poem of all time ever. ... The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope ... At any second to bang and vanish with a flap... a black-/ Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. I love watching gulls in a strong wind, they make beautiful patterns in the air. Strandloper has a large population of enormous, glossy birds who live on the pickings from the restaurant, and presumably conduct an ongoing brutal turf war to keep lesser birds out.
* the Evil Landlord's contribution: "Caltrops."
