19 January 2009

Like Popeye to Spinach

k. convinced me to come down to the beach for a late afternoon swim. I nearly declined on the grounds that I wanted to clean my bathroom. But then I decided I quite liked the tickly sensation as those fungus spores travelled down my throat.

"I'm smashed," k. told me on the phone. Because she's been dealing with so much lately, including what looks like a recurrence of malaria, I just assumed she meant that she was plum worn out.

When I got down to her house and saw her I said, "When you told me you were smashed, you meant that you were pissed, didn't you?" [In her defence, they'd had a delicious lunch and it did go well with the chicken.]

d. had done what any sensible person faced with such a domestic situation would do: he'd gone to bed. Also? He was plum worn out.

So k., t. and I trundled down to the beach. After a swim I lay on my towel for a few quiet moments of peaceful introspection while k. and t. built castles and moats a little further along the beach. I felt light droplets of something spray across my back and legs. I felt around: k. had flicked sand all over me. I gave her a look. She seemed amused.

I decided the easiest thing to do was to turn around and snooze on. I know, I know. It was very irresponsible of me. There I was at the beach with two children and giving them no supervision whatsoever.

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