Everyday Stranger

A Pair of Knickers, Dogs in Wales and a Plasma TV

Long sidetrack from yesterday's post- let me tell you about the weekend I just had.

It started off as a weekend with watching TV, relaxing, and maybe buying some sticks of furniture for the new place.

It ended up with a laugh, a sore ass, and a 32 inch plasma TV.

These things happen.

Friday afternoon Mr. Y blipped me a text message asking if I wouldn't mind skipping the Friends and beer and pizza routine. He had made other plans for us, in fact, and would I be interested? A short argument and a huffy time later, and we are in the car, bound for a bed and breakfast in Bristol. We arrive in said bed and breakfast a little bit cranky, but one look at the bathroom in our room (we were staying in the Hotel Du Vin, click to see a pic of the fabulous showers)-and we were in love all over again (with each other, not just the hotel). One whole wall was taken up with a glass and tiled shower, with a shower head the size of an earnest hubcab. It was like bathing in a hot waterfall, with enough room to have a whole host of people bathe with us.

We had some wild monkey loving, then went out for a spicy Moroccan meal, followed by beer. This was done on the waterfront with the cops around, jiggling their hands in their kevlar vests looking nervous, so we bought a bottle of crap red wine and went back to our room to drink in style.

The next morning wasn't so good. I was praying to the profound porcelain goddess, the victim of too much Kronenburg, too much red wine, or too much of a combination of the two of them. I haven't had such a bad hangover in ages. I spent my time trying the keep my screaming head from falling off, my guts from hitting the floor, and enjoyed a slow slithering crawl between the bathroom and the bed in the meantime.

A few hours of sleep, a very heavy and greasy McDonald's meal later (nothing cures a hangover like a greasy breakfast, once you can stomach the smell), and Mr. Y were on our way. We had decided to spend another night away from the boring flat in Newbury, and so we headed on our way to Wales.

You know. As one does.

The place we were staying at is in a little town called Clytha. We made our way there through winding roads, windows rolled down and humor high. We powered down the small B road behind an open topped car, the kind from the 1920's or so with the great open top and little tiny pop open back that supports a picnic basket. The kind that you expect the man to wear a leather skull cap and goggles while the woman next to him holds on to her hat, with its long chiffon scarf, and attempts to look delicate. Of course, it prompted both Mr. Y and I to start singing "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" at the top of our lungs. We kept going through the verses (he more so than I, he actually saw the film in the theatre as a kid and remembers more of it, whereas I saw it on Encore a few years ago). We overtook the little put-put car after a while, our singing trailing through the open windows as the Alfa zoomed past.

"Our FINE four FEN-dered FRIEeeeeeeeeend!" out the car window, off-key and embarrassing.

Now, in an attempt to be the cute chick I've always wanted to be, I was wearing my city summer combat gear-short flirty skirt, flip-flop sandals, and sleeveless T-shirt, Kate Spade bag at the ready. We decided to pull over and have a little view at the Welsh countryside.

Actually, I'm lying. We decided to pull over and initiate Wales in the same way that we intiated Scotland, only this time we didn't have a ski lift.

We parked the car and started hiking, me in my cute outfit, Mr. Y carrying a thick fleece blanket. We hiked through farming country, surrounded in some areas by spray-painted soggy sheep and curious but edgy lambs. Hiking to near the top of the hill, we spread the blanket down, huddled together for warmth, and got to the business of welcoming Wales into our portfolio of places where we have had fabulous al fresco sex.

It worked.

Repeatedly.

Afterwards, we laughingly assembled our clothes, all messy hair and wrinkled clothes, pinked cheeks and sweet smell of sweat. I decided to be cheeky (pun intended) and forgo putting my underwear back on. I figured-summer city combat gear must surely include for not wearing knickers, and for teasing lovely boyfriends. So I slipped them into my bag and we headed back down the hills.

Only I hadn't planned to be hiking up hills. I had planned for city wear, so my footwear was about as unsuitable for walking down hills as a chocolate tea kettle. We were hiking down, halfway there, when the unthinkable happened.

Oh yeah. Surely you can guess it.

I slipped and wound up sliding halfway down the hill on my bare ass, skirt rucked up around my waist, my butt a surf board riding a wave down a crest of dead bracken, thick grass, and fossilized sheep droppings.

When I finally came to a stop, the wheezy laugh that was Mr. Y came to assist me, and he helped me down the hill. Naturally, once I let go of his hand to assert my independence (I can do this myself, but thank you!), I slid down another hill, exacerbating my annoyance. He has henceforth promised to notify me if any of our weekends away will include what we now call Sheep Shit Excursions, the type of excursions that will see some hiking action in boggy territory, the type where my red-painted toes will want to be covered up.

We got to the Welsh B&B and noticed right away, there was a dog lying smack dab in the middle of the road in front of it. We pulled in carefully around him, but we needn't have bothered-he wasn't going to move anyway. It was rather the hallmark of that B&B-they had masses of animals. In the backyard, a pointer chased some chickens. The setter lay in the road. A German Shepherd took up the front seat of the jeep that the B&B owner thoughtfully would leave open for him to sleep in. A retriever wheezed his way around the pub benches. It was chaos. I loved it.

We checked in, and if the proprietor noticed the twigs in my hair or the amazing grass stain running up my legs and disappearing under my skirt, he thoughtfully didn't comment.

We had a lovely evening, after a long bath, a great meal, and snuggling in the bed, and then we headed back into England. Along the way back into Bristol, Mr. Y suggested looking into a shop called "Richer Sounds" to see their prices on TVs. Richer Sounds is a strange place-their shops are small and a bit chaotic, the queues are usually long, but the staff are very clever and are quick to negotiate with you. Much soul-searching later, and we decided.

We are the proud new owners of a 32 inch plasma TV for our new place.

And I am still against wearing underwear.

-H.

PS-Here's Wales. Lovely, eh? And that little plateau you see jutting out?

Yup. We spread a blanket out and had sex on it.

:)

Posted by Everydaystranger at May 26, 2004 05:20 AM | TrackBack