Birthday blog.

I’ve tried to start writing this 4 or 5 times now. I just don’t seem to be able to get the words out.

I can’t decide whether I should tell you about The Flung’s clenched jaw when I ejected his Kinks cd and slipped in a Clare partymix cd instead. Or how I spilled champagne all over myself in the car. Or the awful padstal biscuits.

Maybe I should tell you how the 3,5 hour drive there felt like less than an hour, how the house was even better than I had imagined, how we walked on the beach, paddled in the water and watched the sun set from the patio.

Or maybe, that there seemed to be more laughing than talking and each day was allowed to unfold on its own, with no plan. Except for the guy’s devious plan to get us into the local pub to watch the rugby, which they deny, of course. And that bizarrely the only other people in the pub were our neighbours from back at the beach house. Or try and explain how funny Barbarella was when she started story-telling, but you really need to see the charades-like actions that go with each one. I’ll never be able to look at asparagus the same way.

Maybe the surreal moment when the penguin we had been watching just at the bottom of the patio was thrown against the jagged rocks by a freak wave, leaving us stunned and disbelieving. Or how the neighbours came over with a guitar and tamborines and sang for us. Or maybe that I joined in?

That I slept easily and deeply.

That Chops and The Kanuck make the best breakfasts ever.

That it was so hot that I got a little sunburned. That I didn’t want to leave. That the trip back was almost silent and felt 6 hours long. That as soon as I walked back into my house on Perfect Street I felt lonely and abandoned.

Perhaps I should rather wait a couple more days before I try and write this.