Reject if Centre Can be Depressed

So I fell off the writing wagon.

I was feeling a little flat about my existence and really didn’t think I should bore you with the details. Firstly there was my bureaucratic tax/passport nightmare and then my marriage was giving me gip. All in all I was not a happy camper and neither was my poor Husband.

He returned from sea to find me mid-way through a mental breakdown and did his best to cheer me up, but I just wasn’t having it. I was having a, what-I-like-to-call, Shitty time. And soon my mood spread to the Husband and we became that couple in the pub discouraging all within earshot from EVER MARRYING. One patron indicated that perhaps we needed to liven things up, ‘hint-hint-wink-wink’ and suggested that we go ‘Dogging’. Now for those of you who have lived sheltered lives or just don’t read smut – ‘Dogging’ is when a couple go to a well-known ‘dogging’ site and have sex in their car, leaving the interior lights on for the viewing pleasure of the fellow doggers lurking in the bushes. Having enticed the ‘doggers’ out of the bushes they will surround your car (often with torches and their tackle in hand – I am led to believe that it is mostly men who engage in the bush lurking and such). As I have never engaged in this hounding behaviour myself, my report is based on hearsay and wild conjecture. Anyway the gentleman in the pub knew a spot where this sort of deviant sexual behaviour occurred and so drew us a little map on one of my husband’s cigarette/rizla papers.

After a boozy discussion we decided that our marital woes where not severe enough to call in the hounds, as it were, and so my Husband took great delight in smoking the dogging directions. The word ‘car park’ was visible on his cigarette (Oh, how we laughed):

So in the spirit of ‘lets fix this’ the Husband and I went off on a romantic weekend to the Isle of Skye, off the west coast of Scotland. The trip did not get off to the best start as we were once again hung-over and my Husband’s driving did nothing to sooth either my hangover or my jangled nerves. Mid drive I did wonder if the Husband’s very recent (April) acquisition of a Driving Licence is at the root of our recent marital woes. We finally got to Skye as it was growing dark and booked ourselves into a room at “Saucy Mary’s B&B.”

Fully rested, we took on Skye with great gusto; driving all round the island, beach walking, losing our fishing rod (don’t ask) and spotting sea eagles – all very Britons on holiday in Britain. As it grew dark we found a scenic little campsite alongside majestic hills with a salmon-filled river flowing at their base. We duly pitched our tent to face the river and the hills wondering why all the other campers had positioned their doors the other way. The Husband and I then settled down in the great outdoors to enjoy our dinner and a glass of vino. No sooner had our derrieres touched the ground then we were swarmed by midgies (no, not midgets…midgies – small nasty little fly things that descend in their 10000’s, clustered around your face, or any exposed skin, including plumber’s bum and bite the kak out of you). Faced by such a merciless attack we had to enjoy our dinner in the great outdoors from the safety of our car, staring at the beautiful vista through a bug-splattered windscreen and black cloud of winged insects.

The promise of a restful night buoyed our spirits, until we realised that the Husband had only brought along the single inflatable mattress. Accepting that this was The Universe’s way of facilitating closeness we snuggled up for the night. And we were close - clinging to each other like drowning men to a sinking raft. The smallness of the space and largeness of my arse forced a position shift approximately every 15minutes. Mid-way through our restless sleep the wind picked up and chose to use our tent as a wind tunnel. “Bloody smug camping neighbours with their doors facing away from the oncoming gale” I muttered mid-15 minute turn. And then it started to rain. It rained. And then it rained a bit more. Loudly right above my head. Then the tent sprung a mild leak. At 8am we stuffed our wet muddy tent into a bin bag, chucked it in the car boot and got the hell out of Skye.

On the road out of Skye we learned that the Husband’s great Aunt had ‘joined the ancestors’ and the funeral would be in Wales on Friday. And so it was that on Thursday afternoon I found myself on another road trip with the Hubby, this time joined by the sister-in-law (who I shall henceforth name Symphony) and my 2-year-old nephew, Rooster. We arrived in North Wales at the Wrexham Travel lodge at nightfall. Having failed to book ahead we claimed the last room available – a family room for the 4 of us. And what a lovely room it was, overlooking an old slag heap, a busy traffic circle, the Little Chef takeaway and a petrol station. As we were in the arse end of nowhere and the travel lodge has nothing resembling a restaurant or bar, the three adults in the room were forced into the smallest bathroom on earth, while Rooster fell asleep (he is used to darkness and silence). Of course we did what any grieving family would do and ordered pizza and drank beer in the bathtub (fully clothed, no water in the bath – we’re not that type of family) and had a whispered, rollicking old time while Rooster slept. Another restful night befall me, what with the Husband’s snoring, the furnace like temperament of the room (we later discovered that Rooster had somehow turned on all the heaters) and finally Rooster’s 6am rendition of Twinkle-twinkle little star: Twinkle-twinkle blah, blah, blah, arh, how…

Rooster made the first 5 minutes of the funeral before legging it down the aisle. After which I escorted him outside for Rooster watch - which involved following him around the churchyard while he put stones down the drain, licked dandelions and collected sticks. During those 5 minutes of the ceremony that I attended we sang the first hymn. I could not believe the Angelic voices coming out of that small, middle-aged congregation. I had heard the rumour the Welsh can sing, but truly it was spectacular. Made all the more beautiful by little Rooster’s hearty ‘Blah, Yah, blah, shriek’ to the appropriate tune. Afterwards I met the Welsh family and the many moustached men and the way men and women sat in separate groups talking rugby and ‘how old do you think she is?’ made me think of my extended family back in South Africa.

That night we upgraded to the 4* Ramada Hotel. I left the Husband to his Welsh ancestry and embraced a big screen TV and an Egyptian cottoned double bed. I slept like the dead; in spite of the Husband roaring in at midnight declaring that we should (and I quote) ‘make a baby’ or the fire-alarm that sprang into life at 7am after some buffoon started a fire in the kitchen. The Husband and I were prepared to be burnt alive; him being too grumpy and me being too lazy to save ourselves, but after the fire-marshal thumped on the door and I had located my brassiere (I would rather burn than go bra-less) and clothes that weren’t my pyjamas we joined the other shell-shocked hotel residents in the car park for role call. “Jones, Jones, Smith, Van der Hoven, Jones. Kinky?” called the stout hotelier in rolling Welsh tones. Kinky? I think some one made up a pseudonym for a little hotel rumpty if you ask me. Ah, yes Mr and Mrs Kinky checking in please.

Sometimes all it takes is a weekend of disastrous camping and a Welsh funeral with a kitchen fire to remember why it is you love your Husband.