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?

Who the Fuck's That Then?

          “If we’re going to be staying here much longer I might as well move into this room with you,” said Ed, striding in this morning. “In the meantime, take a look at this.”

            He’d bought a guidebook for the walk by some guy called Martin Collins. He was pictured on the front cover in a pair of 70s short shorts and a bright coloured t-shirt, standing on a sunny mountainside over a lake. I flicked through and saw a thousand days of Summer amongst grooves of Eden. It was beautiful, green, brown, white and blue.

            “Here, look at this page,” he said, pointing to a picture of a glade of wind twisted trees overhanging a tiny blue sliver of a stream winding between perfect lawn-quality grass on a mountainside. “We’ll camp here. I’ll buy cigars and a flask of whiskey. We’ll build a fire and watch the stars appear. We’ll drink the melted snow of the mountains and mix it with smoky whiskey. We’ll fall asleep there and in the morning we’ll awaken with the sun in our eyes and nothing to do but stroll down the valley in the warmth.”

            He wasn’t taking the piss. He spoke of dreams and natural kindness.

           

*

 

            We spent the afternoon thinking about it. I can’t deny I’m really taken by it now. We even started to plan a little, until…

            “By the way,” he said, offhanded, “we’ve got a double date tonight.”

            “What?”

            “A date, both of us, with two hot chicks. You know how that works right?”

            “How… What?”

            “Oh come on, you’ve fallen off the bike and now it’s time to climb back on.”

            “I’m not sure that’s a good idea at all. I’m still…”

            “…of course you’re sure, now stop being a wanker: you’re on holiday.”

 

*

 

            The date was a disaster, obviously.

            We met the girls and they were gorgeous. Ed does seem to have The Knack out here. One of them even appeared to be interested in me. As this became increasingly obvious I became increasingly mortified. I was feeling guilty as hell. What would Sharona feel if she could see it? Somehow, I wasn’t even really interested. What’s the point in all this randomness?

            “I’ve got a girlfriend,” I said suddenly, out of the blue. It silenced the conversation all around. After a momentary pause Ed spoke.

            “Who the fuck’s that then?”

            I went home and left them to it.

The Time

          I woke up alone this morning. It feels worse than I remember.

          Did I make a mistake?

            Ed says I’m bound to be asking myself that: I just have to stay strong.

            I’m not sure I’m ready for an expedition in the mountains.

Ed told me to take my time.

            I don’t even know what the time is. I haven’t worn a watch in ages.

            I just used to ask Sharona.

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.

Grains of Sand

          “So, Tom, why don’t you translate this for me?” Ed was holding up a print out of Requiem Aeternam.

            I looked at it but had no time to respond, for Sharona was already answering. “‘Await your shepherd; he will give you everlasting rest. Be ready for the rewards of the kingdom, because the eternal light will shine upon you evermore.’”

            “How is you know all this stuff?” we asked her.

            “I read it in a guidebook one,” she replied, with a wry smile. “Anyway, I’d say it all sounds like a perfect excuse for a little lazy sunbathing to me. How about it?”

            “Actually,” I said, “requiem aeternam sounds a little more like a weakly concealed euphemism for death to me.”

            “Way to bring the mood down dude,” said Ed, “come on, let’s hit the beach!”

            “Dude, we’re in Switzerland.”

            “Whatever. There’s a lake here.”

            “Anyway, death can be interesting. Joyce wrote some compelling passages about eternity.”

            “Oh yeah?”

            “Eternal damnation, that is, rather than ‘requiem’. Here, let me quote you a bit…”

            “Seriously, shut the fuck up, people are trying their hardest not to be suicidal here.”

 

*

 

            In fact we did find an area approximately akin to a beach on the lakefront. We set ourselves up and began sunbathing to our hearts’ content. After some time a girl came walking along and decided to sit down near to us. The waterfront was fairly packed so this was not unusual behaviour. She began to read a book until Sharona noticed her and suddenly asked her, in French, whether she was enjoying it. She’s always talking to strangers like this, in an effort to remind us that she could never be English.

            The girl began to answer back in German; why not? These Swiss seem to switch between the two languages at will. I understand both languages and so I followed the conversation that proceeded, occasionally contributing.

            “Don’t be a pair of assholes,” Ed said suddenly, “someone translate.” He pulled himself up onto his elbows and apparently had noticed that we were talking to a girl. Sadly for him he doesn’t know any languages other than English.

            “What a dickhead!” the girl said, in German.

            Ed evidently picked up the emotion, if not the literal translation. He shrugged and sank back into sunbathing while our voices continued like white noise to help him rest.

            Eventually the girl made to leave, but not before telling Sharona and I we were the perfect couple together. This made us grin widely and look at each other with pride. I will never tire of hearing flattery of the girl I’m with. I love to be proud.

            “What’s your favourite song?” I asked, in clumsy French.

            “‘Meme-si’ by Lucie Silvas and Gregory Lémarchel.”

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.”

Make Your Confession, Sinner!

          “Jean-Jacques Rousseau saw a great divide between humanity and nature,” said Sharona, our tour guide, as we were on the boat going to the Ile Rousseau in Geneva. “He felt that society corrupted men. Man’s natural state was good only when surrounded by nature and unspoilt by the trappings of civilization. So it was that Jean-Jacques spent his time on this island – to get away from everyone.”

            “What a bloody hypocrite,” Ed said.

            “Why?” I asked.

            “Because we’ve heard of him!”

            “But perhaps he might not have been responsible for the publication of his words.”

            “Well he must’ve spoken them to someone, or else we wouldn’t know them at all. And what is speaking but communication – the very cornerstone of the society he so despises! Still, insofar as he stands for freedom of man from social expectation I’m with him.”

           

*

 

            The island itself was very pleasant. It was indeed a haven of sorts and we spent an hour or two just relaxing and looking out over the water. We discussed our plans and thought about the next adventure, now that we’d built the balustrade. Ed pointed out that Sharona had been listening to music for a while and she confirmed it.

            “Regina Spektor! Wait, let me bring up a random song.”

            The song turned out to be ‘Lacrimosa’. We listened to it carefully.

            “Isn’t that Latin?” I asked. Most of it had been sung in English but there was a random Latin verse at the end. “Hold on,” I said, “let me listen again.”

            I grabbed a pen and scrap paper and wrote out a rough translation as I listened:

 

Tearful are those days

In which the accused man rises,

Judged,

From the glowing embers.

Here therefore, because, God,

In the Lord, Holy Jesus,

Peace is given to him.

 

            Plainly not wholly accurate but it’s years since my Latin A-Level now. Sharona was amazed. I could see a whole new level of admiration in her eyes.

            “What a waste of bloody time!” Ed said. “I’ve never understood dead languages, just seems an excuse for all you poncy public school boys to claim unjustified superiority over the rest of us.”

            “Thanks, Ed. Anyway… I happen to think it’s pretty sweet that this pop song has Latin in it, and moreover, it seems like a sign to me. This is your adventure Ed, and I believe the fates are directing you to make your confession before God, lest you find yourself judged and condemned to the flames.”

            “What are you on about mate? You don’t even believe in that crap.”

            “I don’t really know what to believe, but that’s beside the point. This is your challenge: to confess your sins.”

An Amiable Dinner

          What a wonderful day it’s been!

            We moved hotel to somewhere rather more civilized than that encountered in the panic of our first night and then spent the morning sitting in cafés and reading books. It was a gorgeous sunny day so we spent it outside.

            This evening we went to Le Jet D’Eau, a restaurant Sharona found in her guidebook on the lakefront. The sun set low behind us late into the evening as we relaxed and chatted amiably over dinner and wine. Incredibly, Ed even did the decent thing and left Sharona and I alone at the end of the night. We’re back in the hotel now but I don’t want to write much – I’ve better places to be! So goodnight…

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.”