Lighthouse family

The glorious weather continues, which is disconcerting. It's been so long since we had any prolonged spells of sunshine - about 2 years, I think - that more than an afternoon of warm, blue-skied sunnyness makes me feel slightly awkward.

It's a bit like being at someone's house when they're out. You don't quite know what to do with yourself, so end up sitting somewhere quietly waiting for them to get back and make tea or something. Or is that just me?

Except at Bestest Mate's house, obviously, where I make my own tea and read all his magazines, whilst listening to loud music. Heh.

So. The Olympics are coming. Specifically, some of the maritime stuff is heading for Weymouth (look on a map, American readers), where a huge new road is being constructed on the way into the town. We drove past it yesterday and it was like a four-year-old's best day out ever. Enormous construction vehicles all over the place, scraping gravel into flat road shapes, diggers shifting stuff from one huge heap to another, cranes and rollers galore.

I'd have stopped to gawp properly but we were On A Mission.

Mr WithaY's drysuit had sprung a leak, so we had to take it to the shop and get it booked in for repair. Is there anything quite as boring as a dive kit shop, when you are a non-diver?

I ask you.

There are no clothes to try on, except huge complicated techno-suits which look like they take hours to struggle in to, and comedy rubber bootees which frankly I can try on at home when Mr WithaY is out*. There are no books to read, apart from dull technical dive books. There isn't even a place to sit and get a drink, unless you count the salt-encrusted sea-dog-frequented coffee machine in the corner. Ugh.

So, I amused myself by reading all the labels on the various lube bottles, and devising ways to silence the incredibly irritating Northern woman who was showing off loudly in the middle of the shop in a voice which put me in mind of Victoria Wood doing her "Gormless Teenager" character.

After we'd finished at the Shop of No Interest (Unless You're A Diver)TM we went on to look at Portland Bill.

Not a friend, a place.

It was lunchtime, so we went to the Lobster Pot right on the edge of the coast and had crab sandwiches. Mmmmmm crustaceolicious. Being fat greedy bastards we also had a cream tea.

Excellent.

There are some lighthouses and things on the Bill. And fog horns, apparently.



The lighthouse is mighty impressive, and there is also a funky monolith nearby.



I liked the monolith very much, although it did make me want to bash things with bones.



Mr WithaY had planned to go sea fishing today, but it was cancelled due to the weather. Check out the wild white water out at sea here...that's where he was supposed to be fishing.



It was lovely onshore though, a bit breezy, but otherwise you might have been in the Mediterranean. Look at the colour of the water!



And back to London tomorrow, where it will probably piss down with rain.




*They look divine. I might take a picture some day if you're good.

Crossed wires

The phone rang earlier this morning. I scampered* to answer it, thinking it might be work.

It was Mr WithaY.

"Gosh! Hello!" I cried, delighted to hear his voice. "How are you? Where are you?" I expected him to say "Houston"...or maybe even "California".

"Heathrow airport" he replied, rather tetchily.

"Already? But you're not due there till Sunday! I'm coming to pick you up!"

Ahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa but no.

What was written in my diary, which I had been working to, was complete bollocks. He landed at Heathrow this morning, and I wasn't there to bring him home. I must be eligible for some sort of Crap Wife Award, surely?

Fortunately, one of the other divers lives a few miles away and very kindly gave Mr WithaY (and all his dive kit) a lift home. Otherwise he'd have had a dull couple of hours while I drove up there to fetch him.

Anyway, he's home safe and sound, and is currently sleeping off his jetlag. In fact, it's time I took him a cup of tea and woke him up.

I'm glad he's back.





*Limped. My knees are a mess.

Shark!

Well, today we go up to Gatwick airport, stay in a hotel overnight, and I then drop Mr WithaY at the airport for his unbelievably early check-in on Sunday morning.

Why? Well, glad you asked, dear reader.

Because he is off to live on a boat out in the ocean off the coast of Mexico for 3 weeks as part of a marine biology shark tagging expedition. Guadalupe and the Revillagigedo (Socorro) Islands, off the Pacific coast of Mexico, to be precise.

And not just little cute Finding Nemo vegetarian sharks*, either. No, these are Scalloped Hammerheads and Great Whites. The plan, as far as I can deduce, is that they take turns being lowered into the ocean inside a cage, then poke the sharks with pointy sticks, trying to give them a funky fin piercing.

Now, is it just me, or does that sound like the kind of behaviour that would earn you an unexpected ride in an ambulance on a Saturday night, never mind attempting it with some of the largest marine predators around?

Gah.

I do have an irrational fear of big fish, so my views on this are bound to be slightly prejudiced. But even so. Sharks! Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

The science bit:

It's all being done in conjunction with the Shark Research Institute (SRI), Centro De Investigaciones Biologicas del Noroeste, S.C. (CiB) and the Centro Interdisciplinario de Ciencias Marinas (CICIMAR), La Paz, Baja California Sur, Mexico. Check them out if you are interested.

*Apart from the Whale Sharks.

Slippery customer

Picture the scene. A large lady of a certain age* is resting on a satin chaise longue**, reading an improving book*** and nibbling on candied fruits****. From time to time she coughs delicately***** into a fine lace handkerchief.

Her beloved spouse returns to the family home, flushed with the success of his latest garnering mission.

"Hello darling" he says, cheerfully, bending to kiss his radient wife gently on the cheek.

"Hello darling," she replies. "Did you find what you needed at Mole Valley Farmers? I know you wanted to examine their range of excellent solid fuel stoves and fireplaces." We talk like that in the WithaY household.

"Oh yes," he replies. "But look what else I got!"



What does one say? No etiquette book I've ever read covers this eventuality.

The man is away at the weekend for a 3 week trip in a boat off the coast of Mexico, tagging huge fuck-off sharks. With a load of divers. And he comes home from Mole Valley Farmers with a litre of lambing lube.

For his wetsuit, I now know.

Well, I had to ask.






*42
**red sofa
***Terry Pratchett
****digestive biscuits
*****makes noises like a cat bringing up a furball

Walk on by

So. Work has been a bit shite this week. To make a great week even better, I had a nosebleed this afternoon. Which was nice.

At least it didn't rain today, which made the trip down to see Mr WithaY's dad in hospital this evening slightly nicer than it might have been. He's been told he'll be in for at least another 5 weeks, which was a disappointment, but he was in better spirits than you might expect.

There was a poor old chap in the bed opposite who was trying to explain to the nurse that he had to take 2 tablets a day, one in the morning, one at night, and that the doctor had told him to do that himself with the tablets he'd brought from home. The nurse was not only not listening to him, she was talking over the top of him before he even finished his sentences, getting louder each time, telling him what to do.

I couldn't decide if it was funny, upsetting or just annoying.

Anyway. We had a nice chat with pa-in-law WithaY, then scooted back home, calling in at the huge Tesco in Shaftesbury on the way to buy something for dinner.

£125. Bloody big dinner.

I'm in the office again tomorrow, then am spending most of Saturday manning (personing?) the phones as the emergency response unit to support Mr WithaY's frankly mental plan.

The Plan:

He is doing a sponsored walk of about 30 miles around Salisbury Plain. In his scuba gear.

Not, and I am still very disappointed by this, however, in his flippers. No, he is wearing proper boots. And a wetsuit. And a BCD. And he is talking about taking one of his tanks*. I am trying to persuade him that he will have more than enough to carry without a bloody huge metal cylinder.

We shall see.

So. He's doing this bloody long walk to raise money to help pay for his shark-tagging expedition to Mexico in October. I'll tell you about that when I am less tired, and can see straight.

*The sort you fill with air, not the fun sort you drive around Salisbury Plain in.

Not alone

Slightly less grumpy about things than I was yesterday, but still pretty pissed off. Still, my team have come up trumps and proved once again how great they all are, so that's good.

I am off work for a few days next week, and really feel like I need the break. Christmas already feels like years ago, even though it is less than a month.

Mr WithaY is off on a jaunt to the Red Sea to terrify fish by looming at them in his wetsuit, so I thought I would have a bit of time to myself as well. I was invited but as I don't dive* and don't really do sun, it seemed a bit pointless to spend a week sitting on a dive boat. In the sun.

Had a disapppointing guitar lesson last night as I was too cross and stressed to focus, and too sad to sing. Still, my lovely teacher persisted and taught me the intro to Purple Haze, so I must make sure I perfect it before I see him again.

He's such a sweetie.

I need to find some local guitarists to play with, though, as it makes such a difference when other people are involved. If anyone knows anyone in this area, let me know. And Andy, get down to the West more often, you selfish git. Heh.

And on the bright side, the sun is shining and the fields are less flooded than they were.

Hurrah.

And I have snowdrops in my garden. Spring approaches.

Other news: Met a fellow Magnum fan today. Yay!



*I have had a go, and enjoyed it, but my phobia about big fish means I can't relax under water for fear of being nudged by a huge finny bastard from behind.

Crab tragedy

Forgot to mention the crab. Mr WithaY went scuba diving on Sunday, and brought home a big crab.

To eat, I mean. Not as a pet.

He was very excited, called me when the boat docked to tell me to get a big pot of water on the boil so he could cook it as soon as he got home.

"But we're going out to dinner when you get home," I explained. "We can't bring a cooked crab with us. It would look odd."

He eventually agreed, and it was settled that the crab would form the basis for lunch on Monday. A Bank Holiday treat.

We had a splendid evening with our lovely mates in the village, where the general consensus seemed to be that nobody would have minded if we'd brough the crab, but that it wouldn't have gone very well with the fab food already on the menu. So, at least we know for next time.

Anyhoo, come the dawn, Mr WithaY and I engaged on the gardening marathon already mentioned, looking forward to our sustaining lunch of crab sandwiches. Maybe some carrot soup afterwards if we were still hungry.

Lunchtime approached. The crab (cooked by now) was retrieved from the fridge. Hammers, picks and other implements of destruction (heh, waited years to use that quote) were laid out neatly, and the de-shelling process began.

With something of a flourish, Mr WithaY broke into the shell. I watched keenly, trying to identify the more deadly toxic parts of the crab for future reference. There was a small, heartfelt noise of distress from Mr WithaY's end of the kitchen as he discovered that the crab shell was all but empty.

He examined it closely, poking about with skewers and forks, but apart from the actual mechanics of the crab (the engine, I guess) there was nothing but air in there.

A young, tiny weeny crab, wearing a huge, brand new shell his Mum told him he'd grow into, it seems.

Mr WithaY picked every last ounce of crab out of the legs, determined to get at least a snack out of it. It was like the aftermath of a battle sequence from one of the Alien films.

Still, the soup was good. Filling. Just as well, really.