Happy Place

I polished off my Java and headed toward the Old Black Lion - a pub on Lion Street we'd decided on earlier as our meeting point.

I went the Shepherds Pie option and waited in anticipation for a meal rivaling the one served the crew last night. Not bad, but not the gastronomic delight that Big Jim's kitchen offered.

'Did you guys know that on April 1 1977 Hay on Wye declared independence from Britain?' Liz asked between mouthfuls of a delicious looking Chicken Parmigana.
The question was rhetorical. At least that's the way I took it. Our guide book offered nothing more than a sentence on this historical moment, but after hearing the date I'd say the idea was conceived in the same vain as the spaghetti tree and the rubber car - that made parking a breeze.

Why didn't I go the Chicken Parmigana? Mental note, order whatever Liz orders next time.

I hate returning home after a weekend away. It's like a real holiday cut short. I feel ripped off. No sooner have you started to get into the swing of things and it's thank you barman for the pint and a one eighty degree spin. Bastard!

So it was in a silent car that we departed Hay on Wye. Silent for ten minutes that is, until Tut and the Kid found that fucking Counting Crows tape. It seemed my efforts to hide the thing were less than inspired. Another mental note, smash it next time. On the plus side, the boys didn't have their guitars, on the negative, homicide is not a viable option in first world countries, especially with witnesses. I could kill them all. No, then I'd have to drive home all by myself and London traffic scares me.

I pulled my Mexican hat down over my eyes and visualised a happy place. A place where nudity was optional for men and Cuba Libres spouted forth from small ice chilled fountains. Where people who found it difficult to close out were revered and women took the initiative. Where old shorts and ripped t-shirts were the giddy heights of fashion. Where five foot ten and a half was six foot two and where wealth was measured by photo albums, surfboards and suntan. A place rimmed by mountains like Zurich with the beaches of Ko Pha Ngan and the temperature hovering somewhere in between. With the liberal laws of Amsterdam and television ads like they show after midnight in Sweden.

'Can I get you girls another drink?'
'I'd love one Doddo and I guess Tatiana can have one too. After all she did turn eighteen last week.' 'Cuba Libres?'
'Off course and when you get back can you tell us that story about the sixty metre goal you kicked in the 1993 Semi Final that put you three points up in time on of the last.' 'Sure I can. Just wait there, I'll only be a second. And can I just say, I really like your G-strings. I dunno, I don't usually go for them, but both you girls really know how to pull them off.'

'Mister Jones strikes up a conversation.....'
'What the.....Counting farkin Crows.....can you boys keep it down a bit, some of us are trying to dream.'

I was now officially in a shit. The rest of the trip back to London sucked the big one.