Road Trip

I'm worried.  I think His Nibs and I could be getting a bit odd in our old age.  I've heard about this happening, people who live alone or in small groups (and our group consists of two) getting a bit insular and set in their ways and strange.

As usual, His Nibs was up with the lark this morning.  And just as expectedly, I was sound asleep.  Until nine o'clock.  At which point he marched into our bedroom, thumped a cup of coffee on the bedside locker, and said loudly "Are you busy?"

Not really.  Busy snoring, maybe, or possibly even drooling slightly, but not busy as such.  I didn't like his question, once I'd woken up enough to think about it. 
It seemed a little formal, I was half expecting him to suggest that since we had a day off on our hands, we might like to spend it splitting up, sawing the sofa in half, and so on.

As regular readers will know, I have a love for the dramatic.  As I pulled myself into a sitting position, I considered my options.  I'd like to think I'd go for the cold and calm approach, as though I'd been waiting for years for him to suggest a divorce.

But I knew I'd end up throwing the cup of coffee across the room, and crying with temper.

I always cry with temper.  Once I get angry enough, tears are inevitable.  This is a cross to bear. Just when I'm getting worked up to a complete whirlwind of screaming and threats, I burst into loud snotty tears.  And instead of frightening His Nibs into submission, the point of most of my tempers, he sighs, and rolls his eyes, and I know he's thinking "Here we go, the waterworks". 
It's almost impossible to be taken seriously when you can't catch your breath to shout between sobs.

For once in my life I decided to keep my big flappy jaws shut, and wait and see what he wanted to talk about, before I started shouting that he could take my pride/dignity/heart but he'd never get the dog, or the kettle or the laptop.

"Not particularly busy, no" I said calmly.  "Good morning, love."

"Do you want to go to Killaloe for lunch?"

I'm absolutely hopeless at geography, another little cross I bravely bear, and assumed I was just confused.

"Sorry, love, I thought Killaloe was in Clare.  Where is it?"

"In Clare."

We're in the height of the GAA season.  Every Sunday, except last week, for months now, His Nibs has refused to go as far as the shop, never mind out for lunch.

We live in Laois.

It's a hundred and twenty five kilometres to Killaloe.  I assumed it was the sort of place we would only ever go for a weekend away.  And to be honest, even at that, I wasn't sure there was enough to attract me there.
I'm not a person who can look at views for long.  I can see a mountain, or a lake, or in fairness even Petra in Jordan or the temples in Cambodia, and within five minutes I'll be saying something like
"Right, I've seen it, it's lovely.  Now what will we do?"

I know there's parts of the world where people drive hundreds of kilometres to work every day, and in fairness we have a reasonable commute ourselves, for Irish people. 
But it's 2013.  There's absolutely loads of places for lazy folk like ourselves to go for Sunday lunch.  It seems a bit mad to go to Clare.

I actually had a few things I could be getting on with today.  Our beloved cleaning lady hasn't been here for a while, she's not been very well.  We're hoping she'll be back next week, but there's only so far even the likes of myself will let the house go, before I have to make an effort.

And there's still a little suitcase on the landing since last weekend's adventures.  The laundry was taken out, but all the other things I can't travel without were still in there, my earring box, a book, a notebook.  Things I can live without but am getting sick of falling over on the landing. 

And I have some friends I haven't seen for a while, who I wouldn't mind having a coffee with.

Most of all, there's a writing competition I want to enter, and my entry has to be posted tomorrow.  Sad to say, I know what happens in the first 500 words of my story, and the last 500 words.  The two thousand words in the middle remain a mystery.

I knew I should wish him a happy journey, and get on with my work.  But I am, like my father used to say, like a sheepdog.  You know the way, if a farmer has a sheepdog, the dog goes everywhere with him?  You often see these dogs, with their heads out the windows of passing cars, or sitting proudly looking out the windscreen of a tractor.  I can't bear to watch someone else going off to have fun while I stay at home. I love a road trip.  There's always the promise of ice cream, and coffee in lovely places.

"Feck it, why not?"

As I got ready, His Nibs had a quick look on the internet to find somewhere for lunch in Killaloe.  And at ten fifteen this morning, we went out for lunch.
We were back by four thirty.

This is mainly because as we drove into the little village, the heavens opened and it absolutely poured rain, as we parked, as we walked around looking for the  specific place His Nibs wanted to go, as we ate, and eventually as we made our way back to the car. 

We decided that since it's no fun wandering around frozen to the bone, and wet to the skin, we'd just come straight home.

Also, I was in a difficult situation.  I had thought I was reasonably presentable today.  I was wearing a black and white sort of tunic affair, with leggings and red shoes.  It probably sounds manky to most people, but it's a better effort than usual for me.

Anyway, as I sat picking at the end of my salad, I noticed something about my leggings.

"Are these leggings navy or black?" I demanded  of His Nibs. 

"Navy."

Feck.  I looked as if I had tried to master colour blocking, and made a complete hames of it.  I looked like a complete gobshite.  So I wanted to get in the car.

His Nibs had a breakfast.  I had a goat's cheese salad.  It was nice.  Not two hundred and fifty kilometres nice, but nice.

The trip was a bit ruined by the guilt.  When His Nibs was getting the 99's, I made a To-Do list on my phone.
When we got home, I walked the dogs, did the laundry, cleaned off the bloody coffee table that I never should have bought, because we're just too messy to handle it, emptied the bins, cleaned the kitchen and dealt with the laundry and ironing pile.

His Nibs shouted at the television, for about four hours, because he'd taped the GAA.

It doesn't matter a feck what we tell ourselves, or where we go for our lunch.  Some things will never change.