not quite but almost

from land's end back to our tee pee

I don't recall a time when I was so busy.  I know it seems like I'm busy all the time, but... by comparison, some times are busier than others.  The end of September, beginning of October, running into mid-October, is going to be rather hectic.  I've scheduled everything in - I think - except sleep, which I'll just have to do without for a few months.

I think it all kicked off at some point last year, but it's been helped on it's way by Outside Edge.  After the rehearsals on Thursday, and a lovely walk (if wet) back to Liverpool Street and home, this evening is the first time I've had to put my considerably tired feet on my bed, and stop, when it wasn't bed time.  I've even left my boots on.  Sick and twisted, I know.  I was feeling very nauseous on Friday morning, so much so that I spelled it nautious in a text message to my boss.  I went to work after lunch, and after discovering, much to my surprise / delight / curiosity, that I had a secret admirer (see the blog board for the latest).  Naive as I may be, it's made me feel consistantly great all weekend.  I even stopped being frustrated about my friends going on about how great it is to be in a relationship (although their particular line was how great it was to be in a relationship with an American)

(aside: isn't "frustrated" a great word?)

Friday night was spent initially in Soho, and my first foray into a sex shop.  Thankfully, I was there with a female friend who'd apparently done this kind of thing before (sometimes I think she's got bigger cahunas than me) and again, thankfully, we found what we were looking for in the first store that we went into.  That isn't strictly speaking accurate.  We didn't find what we were looking for, we found something much better.  Being a stag weekend, we'd wanted to have some kind of inflatable, bleating, farmyard animal (a sheep, for example) with which Dan could form a meaningful attachment for the duration of the weekend.  What we found, by way of replacement, was an inflatable old woman, along with inflatable beige handback, resplendant in her long black widowers dress, wrinkled, time-ravaged face, and (curiously) vertical breasts.  She came with the sales pitch "Old and Not Improved!".  She became known, later on, as Timmy.

After a few drinks at a rather 'interesting' bar, where Fly Me To The Moon was being played in a brazillian-portugese jazz style, in brazillian portugese, followed a meal of chicken and chips, in an establishment where I'd fear to ever show my face again.  Some of the scenes were remenicent of Curse of the Mummy, and subsequently Revenge of the Mummy, when one of the inebriated party found a large roll of commercial-grade toilet paper, and promptly proceeded to wrap the groom in it.  We even, eventually, decided that breathing holes would be a good idea.  Someone at some point made the claim that chicken was a flightless bird.  This is like pouring gasoline onto a naked, flaming pyromaniac sex offender: ill-advised and counter-productive.  Clearly some proof was sought, and after a few test flights we determined that with enough initial energy, the hot piri-piri sauce covering the fried chicken breast aided aerodynamic lift, and also left unpleasant marks on unsuspecting waiters.

I had to behave mildly, since the groom and myself had to be bright enough to get a cab to the train station at around half-past eight the next morning, and since I hadn't even packed, I knew I'd probably end up being up even earlier.  Luckily I had the forethought to book a taxi before I was too drunk to remember what numbers looked like.

The breakfast bagel at Paddington Station was one of the most welcome meals I've ever eaten.  The train journey from Paddington to Penzance is long.  It seemed much longer on the way back, but it is mildly depressing to realise that after travelling for two hours, and watching every yard, every mile zoom past you, you still have another three hours to go.  It gives you much more respect with regards to the scale of things - England isn't quite as small as it seemed on Friday.

We were staying in a place called the White Sands Lodge, an ex-hippy-commune (by which I don't mean it is a commune for ex-hippies) which used to involve a lot of healing, yoga and humming.  It's now got the feel of a safari lodge - very open, very welcoming.  While the groom and I went in search of the tee-pees that we were staying in, the other two members of the group went in search of, and found, some of the best food they'd eaten, comprising of a crab soup, and a crab sandwich.  The main meal of the evening was an amazing BBQ, the mainstay of which was fresh Pollock, fished for that afternoon.

The sunset was spectacular, as you can see from my Flickr photos.  Sadly, I ran out of battery juice before the best parts, but I think I captured something pretty good.

A 15 minute walk to the nearest pub, and we were regailed with live music - with a guitarist, and... another guitarists.  The wind and brass and all the drums were kindly provided by backing tapes, and very good backing tapes they were too.  Not sure about the musicians though.  Feels a bit too much like "music by numbers".  It was still pretty good.

After the pub closed at 11pm (curse you, England (although on this occasion, the timing was perfect)) we wandered back to the lodge studiously avoiding the snails which had emerged for reasons that are beyond me.  I'm not a snail biologist.  We mingled and chatted with the other people who were staying in the lodge; I met Jo, a lovely Kiwi, who had four stock phrases with which she responded to everything you said; I met Therese, an Australian from a small town near Melbourne, who was very quiet and unassuming, who had been away from home since February last year;  I met Tom, who was Dylan Moran from a different universe and a self-described "plastic paddy", delighted himself by ensuring he sounded as pretentious as he could, accidentally letting the veneer slip by mentioning that Bernstein musical, East Side Story.

By 2am, I was asleep in a freezing cold tee pee, not only fully dressed, but even marginally more dressed than I had been before I climbed into the sleeping bag.  Having to get up in the middle of the night and leave the confines of your Tee Pee to, ahem, pee, is only marginally less off-putting than the realisation once you've returned to your Tee Pee that the slightly gooey, sticky substance on the bottom of your shoe probably used to be a slug.  Or even several slugs.  Possibly a family of them.

A fried breakfast while watching Futurama at 8:30am WAS the most satisfying meal I can remember, even more so than the bagel of yesterday.  The morning was rounded with about 5 cups of tea, and a walk from Sennen, across the costal path to Land's End Proper.  It was just over a mile each way, but such a rewarding walk.  The prize for returning to Sennen in one piece, after sending one text message and leaving two voice messages, and failing to throw the aerobie once, was cornish tea.  All were well chuffed with scones, jam, and clotted cream.

Since there were five of us (including the inflatable granny) we were likening ourselves to the Famous Five, of Enid Blyton's imagination.  The Groom was Julian, our already-married friends were Dick and George respecively, the hydraulic octagenarian was Timmy the dog, which rather left me as Anne (a role I attempted to fulfil to the best of my ability.  I attacked it with vim, vigour and more than a little panache)  I was known, briefly, as the groom's Best Anne.

The train journey back to London seemed somehow longer than it did on the way down.  I took the opportunity to feel motion sickness while trying to learn lines, and instead reinforced the famous Pavlovian Response experiment.  Whenever I read the script now, I feel queasy.

I can totally recommend Land's End for a long weekend break - it's breathtakingly beautiful, fun, and not too expensive.  The language is difficult to muster, but once you've mastered the gutteral, earthy dialect, you'll be chatting with the locals about subjects as varied as dairy farming and crop rotation.  I'm being unneccessarily cruel.  The locals were warm and friendly (with the possible exception of our last taxi driver, who, after I'd waxed lyrical about the costal walk to Land's End, the cloudless sky, the cool sea breeze, the fresh air, the perfection of the weather, he responded, after a not inconsiderable and thoughtful pause, with simply "Yes.")

Tomorrow I've got more rehearsals.  Wednesday I THINK I've got a singing workshop for The Wiz.  Thursday I've got rehearsals.  Friday I'm meeting up with friends in town.  Saturday daytime, I should be final-shopping for America, making sure I've got a suit that fits and looks good, and that I can pack it all.  Sunday I'll be packing, arranging the directions, making sure I've got maps and know where I'm driving to once I land in Boston.  And finally finishing off the two best man speeches I've had to write.  Monday, I'm going to the National Theatre, to see The U.N. Inspector, which is supposed to be very good.  Tuesday, I'm rehearsing.  Wednesday...

Wednesday I fly off to Boston.  I'll be seeing New Hampshire, Boston, Chicago and Albuquerque in my travels.  I'm looking forward to Abuquerque just as much as the wedding, because I get to see Angie again.

And all this time, at the back of my mind, I'll be thinking about when I'll be with my secret admirer, how she'll reveal herself and hoping that she might stalk me to the States.

Comments (10)

Add Comment