They Must be Lesbians

          “This is it! Look at that, it’s got to be the best APR we’ve seen so far!” Ed exclaimed. He was looking at an odd looking bottle of locally concocted spirits in Peisey-Nancroix.

            “But what about its WPR?”

            “Tom, the weight to price ratio isn’t half as important as the alcohol to price ratio. You know that.”

            “Fine, I’ve found some incredibly high EWR cereals over here.”

            “Sweet.”

            “Look, this one has over 500 calories per hundred grams.”

            “Bloody hell, that is amazing value for energy.”

            This is what shopping has come to. EWR, WPR, but most importantly APR.

 

*

 

            I just checked my emails. Nothing from Annabell… or Sharona. I’m starting to worry about that last email I sent to Annabell, asking her to be straight with me. I might have made a big mistake there, forcing the issue. But I’m determined to know now, this suspense is too much. I sent her another email, making reference to the first, just in case she didn’t get it. Better to be sure…

 

*

 

            I finished Women in Love today and we agreed to put it into action tonight. We hung about all afternoon feasting on gorgeous food without the least care for a WPR anywhere. Towards the end of the afternoon we found ourselves sat at a table outside a bar, having a drink with two blonde Scandinavian girls.

            This was lucky: since our French isn’t that great it seemed essential that we didn’t attempt to pull off complicated character portrayals in anything but English.

            Of course, it didn’t do any harm that they were hot, and a perfect representation of the equally Scandinavian Ursula and Gudrun from the book.

            We set about acting our parts immediately. In Ed’s case this didn’t mean a great deal. He was Gerald, an arrogant uber-male. I was Birkin, dark, depressed and slightly mysterious, or so I hoped.

            To our despair, the girls didn’t really seem to notice our weirdness, confirming my views once again that foreign girls often seem to perceive personality in a very different way, particularly when its coming from Ed. I spent most of the time with my head in my hands, making completely spurious remarks.

            “How are you guys enjoying the trail?” one of the girls asked.

            “It’s magnificent,” said Ed. “We’re conquering nature and crushing her beneath our feet like that women she is, dominating her and taking her. Yeah!”

            “It’s depressing,” I added.

            “We think it’s beautiful too,” said the other girl. “We just can’t wait to get to the next stage.” They were doing the walk in the opposite direction. “We were at the Refuge de la Leisse yesterday and we just didn’t stop walking all the day to here, it was just so wonderful, yes?”

            “Er,” I said, “isn’t that, like 50 kilometres away?”

            “Ja, we know, it’s not far, but we’re only girls,” they giggled at each other.

            “Oh God,” I said, and put my head back in my hands.

            “You know,” said Ed, “you girls are exactly the types I admire. Such excellent physical specimens. The very best of breeding, quite exceptional, yes. I think I should fuck you both, at the same time.”

            “Oh ja, he’s so funny!” said one of the girls, and left to go back to the bar.

            So it went, for the rest of the night, each of us playing the part, the girls innocent, apparently. At the end, everyone was very drunk and we suddenly realised we had to go to catch the final train home.

            We said goodbye to the girls outside the bar. Ed leant in to one of them to try to take matters further but the girl turned her cheek to him and giggled. “Silly Englishman!”

            We ended up back on the train alone.

            “What the hell went wrong there?” asked Ed. “I thought we, or rather I, had that sown up.”

            I shrugged my shoulders.

            “They must be lesbians.”

Book Adventure

          Today we climbed the Col Du Bonhomme, a thousand metres of pure ascent. A tough, but satisfying day, and tonight we rest at the Refuge du Plan de la Laie. Ed handed over Women in Love to me with instructions to finish reading it by Landry, the next town in two days time.

He wants us to play the parts of Gerald and Birkin while we’re there, it’s to be the first of the new ‘book adventures’.

Betrayal

          “These people don’t know they’re born,” said Ed, at the top of Le Brevent, the mountain opposite Mont Blanc, across the valley of Chamonix. It was incredible to see so many people everywhere and so many unnatural buildings clustered together.

            We agreed to spend the night in Chamonix as a reward for completing the first of six stages of the walk.

            “How many miles is that section?” asked Ed. He never has any idea of mileages or directions, he lets me handle all of that and simply walks alongside, oblivious.

            “About 50.”

            “Fuck, we’re barely anywhere!”

            “This was your idea. Anyway, what are you going to do for the Return to Sender adventure?”

            “Well, that’s up to you, but I’m sticking to the no more adventures from French people rule. From now on let’s take our cue from books, since we’ve got plenty of those with us now, and no music to speak of it.”

            “Okay. Return to Sender can be a future challenge. In fact, when you return to England to have to ‘return’ to whomsoever is the ‘sender’ of the very next email you receive.”

            We went, therefore, to check our emails.

            “Here we are!” said Ed, a little triumphantly. “It’s Alice!”

            I looked and to my distinct disappointment it was true. She was emailing him. I restrained myself from reading the contents, I didn’t want to know. It seemed like… a betrayal. A betrayal of herself, that is.

            “Fine,” I muttered, and went to check my own messages. I had yet another friendly email from Annabell wishing me luck along the route and telling me how impressed she was with my resolve! I couldn’t believe. In a moment of madness, with Alice somehow in the back of my mind, though to what effect I couldn’t say, I decided to email Annabell back and ask her straight out where she stood with me, whether we could try again.

            As soon as I clicked send I choked, and I’ve been holding my breath ever since…

They Should Stop Being French. It's Off-Putting.

          Aaah, back in town. I’m in Samoëns tonight, a town built around a lime tree, after a pleasant walk this morning through more alder trees and along more ‘stony tracks’. We even passed an amusing rock with an arrow pointing to ‘Nice’ on it, only another 400 odd miles!

            There’s plenty of time to think while you’re walking. I lost myself this morning in reveries about Annabell and how it might all work out. I interspersed these with occasional mental projections of a life with Sharona, a strange, slightly guilty feeling overshadowed those. At once I realised I’d been walking along with Ed for hours without a word. We’ve settled into a new rhythm of life already, and I think I like it. Nothing is rushed.

            In an effort to spice up the walk a little bit we decided to get a new adventure from one of the locals in town tonight. We went out for a restaurant meal to treat ourselves; we deserved it after so many meals of rice. I tried to ask the waiter for his favourite song in French, but I’m still getting back into the swing of it properly, I was relying on Sharona a bit before.

            “Qu’est-ce-que ta meilleux chanson?” I tried, my apologies for this no doubt appalling French.

            “Ah, it eez ze King, yes?” he replied, in French. “Elvis, Le Roi!”

            “Ah, oui, mais quelle chanson, monsieur?”

            “Mais, s’il vous plait, any of zem!”

            “Oui, mais, si vous… er… I can’t get Spanish out of my head, er… debeo? Devoir? Er… Si vous… devez choisir?”

            He looked at me blankly.

            “Er… un chois…ir?”

            “Ah! Une chanson seulement d’Elvis,” he might’ve said, I’m not sure. “D’accord, peut-etre returner to sendeur?” He began singing the song to us rather badly.

            “Right,” said Ed, while the waiter continued singing, “new rule: no more asking French people for their favourite song.”

            The waiter suddenly stopped singing and looked at Ed. “Qu’est-ce-que monsieur?”

            “Never mind my green cousine, it’s over your head.”

            “Is zis so?” he said, narrowing his eyes and raising one eyebrow. Ed narrowed his eyes too leading to a comic Western stare down. “I see ‘ow it eez ici. I leave you rouge beoufs alone.” He turned on his heel and stalked off.

            “What did you do that for, Ed?”

            “What? He’s French, he doesn’t count.”

            “What do you mean, Ed? Doesn’t count as what?”

            “Well, they ought to learn English really, and stop being French, it’s off-putting.”

            “I see. Ed, do you know where we are right now?”

            “Whatever, dude, or should I say ‘mon homme’?”

Inoffensive

          Early this morning I woke up with the sun shining straight through the canvas into my eyes with enough strength to prevent proper sleep. I tried to hide under my pillow but realised I didn’t have one, only various clothes now scattered about my head. I noticed eventually that Ed was awake too, but in denial of the fact. He was pretending to be asleep. I had a rock directly under my back and shifted awkwardly around it. The good news, at least, is that I've realised I can post from my mobile, and there's actually signal out here, so here goes!

            “Oh fuck it,” said Ed, suddenly and loudly. “Let’s get moving, we’ve got mountains to conquer.”

 

*

 

            The first ascent was truly epic. We came across the lake very early, enjoying the bright clear sun and the fresh breeze. As soon as we disembarked on the southern side we located the first GR5 marker: a red and white stripe on a rock. With excitement we looked further up the road and saw the second, and so the next adventure began. To reach the first waypoint, at the top of the mountain adjacent to Lac Lemon, we had to ascend 1,500 metres, around a whole vertical mile. To demonstrate just how ridiculous this is I’ll point out that the highest ‘mountain’ in England is only 1,000 metres tall.

            Three quarters of the way up Ed had a mini-stroke. There’s no other description for it.

            We’d been going for about three hours at a quick, optimistic pace. The gradient was extremely severe and I can’t deny that I was becoming incredibly weary. We hadn’t trained for the walk and it was really taking its toll. I suggested we take a break after a while, or at least slow down, and Ed laughed at me. He was very red in the face though…

Eventually, when he was walking ahead of me, he suddenly stumbled to the side and fell backwards on his pack. He started gasping.

            “Tom… I… can’t feel… my fingers.”

            I looked at him with horror. He started shaking his hands vigorously and then pressed them against his chest.

            “My heart! It’s… thumping so hard… nearly… out of my chest!”

            Then, all at once, he jerked to the side and threw up amongst the rocks and grass.

            He paused, for a moment, gasping again, and then all at once stood up.

            “I’m fine now,” he declared, looking anything but.

            “I don’t think so, Ed. You need a doctor, and fast. Let’s go back down, or you can wait here and I’ll go.”

            “Tom,” he said, staggering over to me and placing a hand on my shoulder, “we’ve come this far and I won’t betray everything you’ve worked for by failing us now. We’ve come too far.” He looked me in the eyes with all the intensity of an artic explorer.

            “Okay,” I said slowly, “but we’re turning back at the first sign of trouble.”

            We waited for ten minutes or so, as Ed recovered, and then continued along. After a further struggle we finally made it to the peak. This was only the end of the initial climb, however, there was much more still to go over this brief horizon.

            It was an odd spot, almost a cratered peak, like that of a volcano, and in the hollow someone had built a very small farming area with a few barns and little cottages. Oddly though, it was completely abandoned.

            “Let’s stop here!” Ed suggested eagerly. And so we had a break. Ed had brought along a Frisbee and we threw it to one another across the cratered area, occasionally resulting in crazed dangerous rescue missions when it went astray. Time passed and eventually we stopped for a break and looked down the long valley we had conquered back to the lake. Technically we still had a distance to cover if we were to stick to the planned schedule but Ed argued that we should stay in the crater for the night. I reluctantly agreed, if only for fear of straining his heart any further.

           

*

 

            “Hey, Tom, over here!” shouted Ed. I’d begun to unpack a few things to set up for the night and Ed had wandered off to explore. I went around a rock and found him on a sort of ledge overlooking the valley. The sun had begun to set now and he had draped himself over a giant cross. He was silhouetted against a dark orange sky over a dusken valley.

            “That’s not funny Ed.”

            He dismounted and walked over to me.

            “What’s your problem?”

            “Well, it’s a bit offensive.”

            “Tom, you don’t believe in God.”

            “No, but still.”

            “Still what? What’s going to happen?”

            “It offends people who do believe.”

            “Aside from the fact that that’s a good thing, look around you Tom, there’s no one out here, we’re all alone.”

            “Just don’t do it.”

            If ever there was a stupid thing to say. Ed immediately turned back to the cross and once again hung himself over it, head lolling to the side.

            “Have the courage of your convictions Tom, make a choice. If you believe then strike me down, but if you don’t then stop being a prick.”

            “I’d rather have the humility of one who’s in no position to know any certain truths.”

            “No, that’s right, you never do know anything for certain do you? You need to stop dithering and make some choices in life. Be a man. Or would you rather just be inoffensive all your life?”

            “Let’s go set up the tent, Ed.”

            “Fuck that,” said Ed, content to take my change of subject, “let’s sleep in there!” he was pointing to one of the barns.

            “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. What if a farmer or someone comes?”

            But Ed was not to be persuaded and sure enough we stayed the night in the barn. After a brief meal we climbed into our sleeping bags on the dusty floor of the barn, closed the door and tried to sleep. Light still came into the barn through cracks between the wooden planks that made the walls. The light dimmed slowly but surely, reducing the barn to grey, and just as surely I was filled with a terrible dread, like vertigo.

I have to be out here for another six or seven weeks to pull this thing off. Can I handle Ed for that long? What will become of my job? What will become of Sharona and Annabell? The singers of ‘I Would Walk 500 Miles’ were trying to prove their love to one woman, who am I trying to prove it to? Am I proving anything at all?

PunchDrunk

          Ed had a fantastic time last night. Just how fantastic I can’t say, but he certainly met those two girls, and he certainly didn’t come home with us. I have to add that they really were stunning last night, wearing short gold dresses (standard fare for the club named ‘Golden Dream’), and sporting long straight sun-blonde hair.

Ed welcomed them over as soon as he spotted them and immediately began joking and chatting away with them as though they were just anyone, and not the two most spectacular women in the place. They appeared to admire him in equal measures; it was, as I’ve already said, difficult to tell them apart. Ed may have been a very lucky man, but to be honest I haven’t asked him. There’s only so much untainted happiness anyone can have for their friends.

Sharona and I sat together and alone towards the end of the evening, lethargic and weighed down. We listened to the last song, I Would Walk 500 Miles, with total apathy and then set off back to the hotel. We went to bed and fell asleep straight away, back to back.

 

*

 

            Sharona woke early this morning and retreated into the city to do some shopping. While she was out Ed came in to see me.

            “It’s time to cut loose Tom” he said. He hadn’t even said good morning.

            “Eh?”

            “There’s never been a better time for it than now, just as we’re about to set off on our next adventure: the GR5!”

            “The what?”

            Ed explained it to me. The GR5, or Grande Randoneé Cinq, is a long distance walk from Holland to Nice in Southern France. It is thousands of miles long. Ed was suggesting we just do the most common part of the route, from Lac Lemon to Nice, a mere 440 miles, and therefore close enough to the song we’d heard the night before. At first I was horrified: more time away from work, hundreds of miles of walking, total disregard for my life at home and… the women.

            It would mean the end of Sharona, for now at least, since Ed insisted she couldn’t come, and I could not bring myself to protest strongly enough. Equally, though, it would mean several weeks until I could follow up on Annabell’s unexpected revival of interest. What if she were to turn cold again before I returned?

            Nonetheless, it represented something new and different: something that was neither uncertain or undecided, neither Annabell nor Sharona. It was an escape route, and so what? I know everyone disapproves of running away from problems but I don’t give a fuck right now. I think sometimes things need time, sometimes problems cannot be fixed immediately.

            So I decided to go.

            “Of course you will,” said Ed. “I never doubted it. Now we just have to tell Sharona.”

           

*

 

            “It’s not the end, Sharona, honestly,” I said, when we’d explained it to her. I could see her face twisting up with rage. The pitiful little girl was gone, this was the fiery creature I’d met. It almost made me sorry for my choice.

            “Who are you to tell me when it’s the end or not?” she shouted.

            “Listen, darling,” said Ed, “he’s right. This is just an adventure Tom and I need to do on our own. It’s a man thing.”

            Sharona looked apoplectic.

            “Look, here’s a sign of good faith,” he said, “have the keys to my flat, stay there while we do this.” He threw the keys through the air to her. She caught them angrily and stared at us. “Don’t take it so personally, Sharona. You always knew what you were getting with us. But we’ll be back, you’ll see.”

            But she was ignoring him; her gaze was fixed upon me. “God you’re fucked up Tom. This is all about Annabell isn’t it? Don’t look so surprised, I’m not an idiot. What’s the matter with you? You’d choose the girl who feels nothing but contempt for you over the girl who loves you?”

            She’d said too much. She put her hand over her mouth, grabbed her back and ran out.

            “Wow,” said Ed, “I didn’t see that one coming. Well… at least she’d gone now eh mate?”

           

            I punched him.

 

            Square in the eye. He went straight down, he didn’t even try to block it.

            “I’m sorry, Tom,” he said, unfazed, from the ground. “I hope you feel better now. You can do that again if you like. No? I’ll even hit you back if it’ll help. Come on, let’s go get drunk.”

Something Like Nervous Infidelity

          Sharona was gone when I first woke this morning. Yesterday we’d pretended to have an ordinary day. Nothing much happened, we relaxed around the hotel in a haze of awkward levity. When I saw her side of the bed empty this morning I felt mixed horror and relief.

            In fact, she was only in the bathroom. As she walked back in she smiled at me wholesomely, as though we were eternally bonded by warm, patient love. I dealt with it and got up.

           

*

 

            “‘Meme-si’,” said Ed, “that’s, like, ‘as if’, isn’t it?”

            We looked the song up online and read the lyrics.

 

You’re not in love this time,

But it’s alright.

 

            Great, a song all about love that doesn’t quite work out.

            “Er… maybe we should consider something else?” Ed suggested, and it quite took me aback. He’d never suggested giving a challenge up. I looked at him. He appeared to have genuine compassion for us. He could see the awkwardness between us as we read the lyrics and tried to act as though they were written about strangers.

            “There’s swimming in it, right?” I said, perpetuating the pretence. “Sinking, admittedly, but swimming too. We’ll go swimming.”

            And so we did.

 

*

 

            Down at the lakefront we dried off and relaxed after a quick dip into the admittedly freezing waters of Lac Lemon.

            Two girls, bronzed and bikini’d as though we were in Nice, walked past and Ed stopped them to ask the time. Luckily for him they spoke English and this time Ed’s charm was as magic. His request of them was a mere device and very soon they were giggling and flicking their hair about like the best of them. Sharona and I watched him quietly, with deep seated envy. We wanted his ease of mind and poise. We wanted his carefree life, without ties and pain.

            “What’s your favourite song?” he asked them, at length.

            “Why don’t you find out? Come to Le Reve d’Or tomorrow night and we’ll make sure it’s played!” said one of them. I’d identify which but it’d be difficult. They both had long blonde hair and lithe, flawless figures.

            “You’re on!” said Ed, and they walked away.

 

*

 

            I’m ashamed. I just emailed Annabell back. It’s bad enough that I don’t know where I am out here with Sharona, but I couldn’t help it. I tried to keep it casual, but it felt anything but. It was something like infidelity, something like nervous hope, or a terrible premonition.

Can't... Won't?

Does my name still come up, was I marvellous?

You should’ve asked yourself,

Before you turned me down.

Your name still comes up,

You are marvellous,

I should’ve told myself before I let you down,

You were marvellous.

- Marvellous, Nine Days

 

            I spent the evening last night listening to all sorts of music, reading terrible things into all of it. Had I made a mistake? The truth of it is that Sharona didn’t come back at all yesterday.

            But the worst truth is that in the end I fell asleep, and slept well…

            …until she finally crept back in. It was in the very early hours of this morning. I stirred as she slipped back under the covers behind me. I didn’t turn around to face her. Memories of yesterday were beginning to stir the mud in my head. As consciousness took hold I became excited that she’d returned to me. But I was sick in the stomach somehow, as though standing on the edge of a precipice.

            Sharona began to cry softly behind me and so I turned to her.

            “Please don’t cry,” I said, uncomfortable with the idea that someone else in this situation had emotions.

            “I’m crying because I spent all night thinking of the moment I’d return to you, thinking of the way you’d take me in your arms and tell me how much you love me. But you’re not doing that, are you Tom?” (Can’t… Won’t?)

            “I… I don’t know Sharona. I’m so confused right now, I don’t know what I feel.”

            She lay there, not moving, barely breathing. Somehow, as I’d turned, I’d taken her hand. It lay there, cold and awkward. I couldn’t let go, but I couldn’t warm it.

            “Tom?” she said, at length, “Maybe I could…” her voice was pleading, slightly pathetic. “Perhaps I could just stick around and help you work out your confusion?”

I felt contempt for her, and I hated myself for it. Is this how Annabell saw me? Out of guilt I turned my contempt to pity. I kissed her and held her close.

I Think We're Outgrowing Her

“God does not play dice with the world.” – Albert Einstein

“Stop telling God what to do.” – Niels Bohr

 

          Sharona was still in bed as I checked my emails today. I had one from Alice and one from Annabell. Alice always writes with modesty and kindness. She gave me a brief outline of her life, in the barest terms, and then devoted much more time to asking questions about my adventures.

            Annabell, on the other went, had detailed her recent working life in the most extensive manner. Apparently she’s been having difficulty with one of the other CPS prosecutors in her office. They’ve been developing a rivalry that’s boiled over into open office warfare. Annabell is happy because she’d decided to take a case that this girl had rejected as a loser, and she’d won it. She was very proud of herself. At the end of the message she wrote the following:

 

“But never mind me, Tom. How are you? It’s been ages since we met up. I was thinking about you a lot today and wondering what were doing, where you were. Perhaps we could get together soon? I’d like that. X”

 

            She’d left a kiss! Immediately my stomach and heart surged toward one another and commenced an uneasy stand-off.

           

*

 

            “Where did you go, Tom?” Sharona asked me, when I returned to the room.

            “Nowhere,” I snapped back.

            “Okay, I was only asking.”

            “Well don’t. For God’s sake, can’t we ever just have a moment to ourselves?”

            Sharona frowned at me, hurt and slightly confused. I’m not really sure what I was doing. “Sometimes I don’t understand you, Tom.”

            “So what? Why do you always have to understand, share, be there?”

            “I’ll go,” she said, turning away from me.

            I didn’t reply.

            She put on her shoes in the awkward silence and left. I continued to sit on the bed wondering what I’d just done. I felt irritated, but I wasn’t sure where it was directed or how it happened. I didn’t move at all until Ed walked in the best part of an hour later.

            “Where is she?” he asked, straight away.

            “She went for a walk.”

            “What, you two had an argument?” he said, cutting straight through the nuances of my face.

            “No, she’s just gone for a walk.”

            “Shit, what was it about?”

            “Nothing, Ed, there was no argument.”

            “Bloody hell, I knew this would happen. Do you think you’ll get back together?”

            “We didn’t split up.”

            “Honestly mate, I beginning to think it might be better to travel without her anyway. She holds us back a bit, you know?”

            “What? You’re the one who’s always telling me to sort it out with her! You like her!” I paused. Ed had reacted to those last words; there was something funny in his expression. “Wait just a minute…” I began.

            “I just think we’re outgrowing her. You should never be with one girl too long, Tom, it’s a basic rule.”

            At this moment, as Ed shared his wisdom, Sharona came back into the room. She looked from one of us to the other and back again. Ed sat impassively staring at the floor, avoiding her eyes. I half looked at her, as one does at a pretty girl on the tube, ready to look away at the first sign of trouble.

            “Well?” she said.

            “I…” It was impossible. I had no idea what to think, or feel. Should I have told her that the only thing in my head was the unwelcome and unexpected, surprising thought that she just didn’t (couldn’t… wouldn’t?) fit into my life, unlike others, unlike Annabell? I looked at Ed, somehow hoping he’d help.

            “Don’t look at him for God’s sake, you’re supposed to be apologising to me! I can’t believe I came back. You know what? Fuck you!”

            She left.

            “That went well,” said Ed.

Goddamn Hell

          “Don’t actually confess everything,” I said to Ed this morning as we set out, “we’ll be at it all day.”

            We started by heading for the Saint-Pierre Cathedral in town, it seemed an obvious enough place for a confession. Sharona told us it had once been home to a Christian funery cult. Ed went into the tourist shop in the entrance and asked them, in English, where he could get a confession. They looked at him as though he were sort of freak.

            “I’ll go find a goddamn priest myself then!” he said, oblivious to their further indignation.

            He did indeed find a priest within the main part of the cathedral. He explained his desires.

            “But, my son,” said the priest, in English, “this is a reformed protestant church.”

            “Er… and?”

            “Protestants do not engage in confessions I’m afraid.”

            “‘Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity. I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the Lord” – and you forgave the guilt of my sin’ ” said Sharona, out of the blue. She does come out with the unexpected at times!

            “Psalm 32:5,” said the priest.

            “And before that the lord indicates the dangers of not confessing, how it will sap away your very life force,” continued Sharona.

            “You make your point well my child,” he said, “but for we protestants it is a personal matter.” He smiled. “Confession is for man and his God alone.”

            “Oh go on!” pleaded Ed.

            “No.”

            “Please?”

            “Excuse me, my son, I must tend to the needs of others.”

            On the way out we asked for directions to the nearest Catholic church. We were sent to the Russian Orthodox Church of Geneva in Rue de Beaumont. On the way Sharona tried to explain something about catechisms in the church but neither of us guys really followed it. We picked up some cheap pizza slices, quite the suitable fuel for our spiritual journey.

            Inside the church, after lunch, we asked a random attendant in the church whether Ed might be able to confess. The guy told us that they don’t really do random confessions, you have to be a member.

            “Where’s Sharona?” Ed said suddenly. He had a point, she’d disappeared.

            Moments later she appeared from around a corner with a priest in tow. She’d persuaded him to hear Ed’s confession. She was truly outdoing herself today! Ed was led into a confession booth and we waited in the main part of the church.

            Sharona and I barely had time to enjoy those brief moments alone before Ed re-emerged.

            “That was fast!” I said.

            “He refused to listen. He left out the back, saying he didn’t want his time wasting.”

            “What the hell did you tell him? Er… but without the ‘hell’ bit, sorry church!”

            “The truth.”

            We left, but not before Sharona obtained the name of the choral music being played in the background.

“It was ‘Requiem Aeternam’ from the deutero-canoncial fourth book of Edras,” she said.

“Right,” said Ed, “yeah. That classic. Well, this church has rejected me, let’s get the hell out of here.”

Being Men as Men Should Be...

          A saw landed on my bed and woke me. Yes, a saw with teeth: the metal kind.

            “Come on you lazy bastards!” Ed said. “Let’s go, I’ve got the tools: one saw, one sander, one hammer and a bunch of nails.”

            I blinked slowly and looked about. The sun was shining brightly through the windows; it looked to be a glorious day. I idly wondered how Ed managed to get into our room. I’m sure I locked it last night. Sharona groaned next to me and pushed her black hair over her eyes before burying herself further under the covers.

            “Seriously,” said Ed, “rise and fucking shine. We’re going into the mountains to build a balustrade.”

            Sharona and I looked at one another quizzically and inwardly resigned ourselves to the situation. There followed an awkward sequence where Sharona and I attempted to get out of bed and dress with Ed sitting on the end of the bed. He remained doggedly ignorant of the fact that we were both naked and attempting to preserve some modesty in front of him. I’m not sure whether it’s because he thinks we’re all like some big family or because he gets a kick out of being difficult.

 

*