No canoe metaphors today. I don’t even know why I mentioned them to be honest. The only time I ever went in one was when I was being wooed by a man called Kevin who had a Canadian canoe (bigger than a regular one I believe) and he took me boating down the Isis, in the mistaken belief that I was keen on this type of thing, and nearly got me killed by paddling into a swan’s nest. It did not enamour me to a life on the water any.
His second attempt at seduction came with the most appalling bottle of Chilean red wine, which ripped the back of your throat out and made you make that strange houghing sound that only alcohol and smoke inhalation can do. It was accompanied by him continuing to show me his wilderness skills by building a fire of green twigs, which went exactly as expected, and cued up a second bout of houghing noises. So I got the complete set.
I went home, bewildered, convinced I was definitely not a child of the wilderness, and smelling like a smoked kipper.
Our love was never meant to be.
Today I left Jason to cope with the children alone. I think this is only fair as he is going scamping in his orc ears next week and leaving me with the children. Horses for courses. He goes and sits in a damp tent wearing hessian pants and chopping at people with a foam rubber short sword. I go to the South Bank and eat teriyaki chicken and watch Lesley Sharp in A Taste of Honey at the National theatre. No houghing was involved.
The down side to the day? The piece of red velvet cake I devoured turned out to be covered in white chocolate instead of cream cheese frosting. I coped with the disappointment.
Probably due to my early survivalist training.
Unlike the swan, the cake did not try to break my arm.
Which is good.