Can you let go of my arm, please?
In a minute
Or at least loosen the fingers?
In A Minute
Anna, its gone dead
In a minute! Seriously. Someones rung the bell. He has to stop. He HAS to stop.
Take a spontanous road trip said the suggestion in the long long list. This, I thought, we can do, on such a lovely weekend as this – this is something we can do. Spontaneity! Fun! Larks! A road trip!
Granted, we dont have a car, and neither of us can drive anyway, so it wouldnt help if we did. And with the trains running north out of Brighton royally screwed this weekend, our exciting road trip was by neccessity composed around the movements of the planets. Sorry, not planets, buses. The movements of the buses.
Buses: which are like planets, except more rectangular, and have more old people on them. And are less in Space and more on Timetable.
And are driven by performing circus monkeys wearing old-man-flesh-balaclavahats.
Or ours was, anyway.
We had tried to find a number 30 bus, but there wasnt one. The number 29 ended up in some roughass housing estate, and the number 35 is half way to forty and were not even thinking about that yet. So we went with the Plan B – get on the first bus that comes and stay on it to the end.
After wandering about and taking some photos for another challenge altogether, we arrived at the bus stop, as did a bus. One body (us) penetrating the other (the bus) through the medium of lovingly parted driver-operated doors later, and with the social and economic lube of a daysaver, we were off to Eastbourne.
All the way to Eastbourne! This was going to be a great day out. My Beloved seemed enchanted and got very carried away by the thought that we might get off at Beachy Head and pay some homage – or perhaps drink a toast – to my very favourite (and the sadly quite sucidal) singer-songwriter Nick Drake. As Ive managed to make it to older than he ever did, my beloved decided, we should get off at Beachy Head and say hello, and this would be a suitable thing to do.
Yes, I said, it would. If he hadnt died from an overdose in Warwickshire.
I wasnt sure if hed ever been to Sussex, in fact.
Although if hed taken an overdose of drugs in Warwickshire that had led to him consequently flying off a cliff in Sussex, I would be quite up for taking a much smaller dose of those same drugs. Because they sounded ace.
My beloved was quiet for a while, I assume simply soaking in my wealth of rock knowledge for use at a later date.
Well, quiet, that is, until the double decker bus headed up the hill, and turnipped the corner.
[Turnipped – in this context being turning, but with a fair bit too much tipping for my liking.]
At what felt like 60, 70, 180 miles an hour the performing monkey in the uniform and old-man flesh-hat was having far too much fun for my liking. I clung on to the arm of My Quite-Unhappy-About-It Beloved, held my breath, clenched the muscles of my pelvic floor, and bit my finger till it almost bled.
If this man was going round, near or over Beachy Head, I wasnt going with him.
And thus, we ended up on our wild, impulsive, spontaneous road trip in a little suburb/village approximately 6 miles from our house, sitting on another pebbly beach under a white cliff, listening to women shouting Jade, stop throwing rocks at your brother, the sea, lapping, and seagulls, as always, everywhere.
It was very nice.
It was lunchtime, and there were places to eat. But everywhere that could possibly be eaten in I would rather have chopped my own arm off, marinaded it in tears and grilled it over my lighter than eat in, so a fruitless tour that amazingly found us back at a bus stop, within fifteen minutes we were we were somewhere near civilisation*, and all roads were leading toward noodles.
Of course, as chance would have it, we had exactly the same driver on his return trip, so noodles were appetised by at least half my finger. I start to believe that far from being discouraged, drug use in bus drivers should be compulsory. But just not high-flying long-range NickDrakey drugs. The other kind. The opposite drugs.
Spontaneous things are all well and good, and road trips are road trips, and this was a lovely idea. But at the end of the day, Sundays are sacred, noodles are neccessary, and in the city, you always know that everythings going to be open at least some of the time it thinks it is. Unlike bloody villages.