Go Darke

I haven’t been on holiday in what feels like forever. Work and breeding have really cut deep into any vacation respite that might have been on the cards. Pre-progeny you are inclined to imagine that the sperm-ovum combos will simply merge seamlessly into your existing life with scarcely a ripple. Post-progeny you know better (and have become an expert in all things tsunami)

Don’t feel too sorry for me though. This is my digs for the next couple of days.

Courtesy of my wife, who likes me, for some reason. (Its part of my birthday present)

We used to come to this part of the world quite often when I was a kid. The surroundings have unfortunately become somewhat gentrified (not in a good way) over the intervening decades and the charm of the small town is gone. (look at me, recollecting the times of yore when everything was better)

‘I remember when this was all sugar cane, as far as they eye could see’

The hotel is still really nice though.

Sadly I had to take my laptop. Because well… I can’t really afford to take a holiday (in terms of responsibility that stems from this entrepreneurship hell I have created for myself) Joey teeters back into self pity and general whine for the briefest of moments.

I’ll probably be okay though. *slurps his pink umbrella drink and then fails in an attempt to guide a piece of pineapple into his mouth using only the straw*

In an act of supreme bourgeoisie fuckery I am clacking away from the poolside.

Truth be told I’m a little bored. (And getting fidgety)

I’m not entirely sure what I should be doing… but baking my dermis to resemble either a jacket potato or lobster thermidor (basically the only two skin tones in my current field of vision) seems like conceding to peer pressure. And so I’m ‘journalling’.

The sign of a disquiet mind.

I did however get up early this morning and went for a run along the beach¹. A couple of kilometers in either direction before eating my body weight in bacon and sunny side up. I’m trying to zero out the effect of being a glutton, with, if the bathroom scale in the hotel room can be believed, less than stellar results. Will have to take on more substantial measures when I get back home with some heavy lifting and not eating for a week.

[1] Which may have caused a fair number of fellow holidaymakers to amble towards me in a concerned manner, wet towels at the ready. Despite my protestations, they attempt to push me ‘back’ into the ocean. ‘Go home Shamu, you’re free now’.

Did some obligatory touristy stuff. Like taking the kids to the aquarium.

The older one loved it. Had to drag her out by her ankles eventually while she claw-marked any available surface area that provided grip. I’d love to be able to experience that sense of wonder again. But alas, at this point in my tenure on planet earth, I am mostly just jaded.

Echoing this sentiment is my selection of pool side reading.

I’ve noticed some disapproving looks². I’m one of the few people with a paperback. And people are nosy to see what you’re reading (not like me, obviously).

[2] Because Empathy is a good thing right? And what sort of monster would be against it.

There’s a guy four loungers down from me reading ‘the subtle art of not giving a fuck’, with its garish orange cover. He occasionally pauses to recite a particularly profound passage to his significant other… I resist the urge to walk over there, take his book away, smack him across the face with it (and then drown him in the swimming pool, ‘this is for your own good I will shout’, which it really would be. A mercy killing of sorts).

I’m all about, De gustibus non est disputandum, except when it comes to Mark Manson. I’ll bet you anything he listens to a commercial-pop radio station and likes the new Star Wars movies.

Against Empathy is quite good and I’m enjoying it (as evidenced by the amount of pages I’ve dog-eared, for later reference), pretending that one day I might be able to recall (or at least only half butcher) the anecdotes contained within.

But really, at this advanced age (40), I can barely remember to take my chronic medication that stops me going towards the light… committing counter arguments and clever maxims to memory are beyond my realm of possibility now.

*glares at the Manson aficionado*

Could still take this guy though. He’s young… and twiggy, and old people have a lot of violence in their heart. So there’s that.