Mr Sandman...
Coming back from our last walk with the dogs on Tuesday evening, the husband spied a rather long stick, which had washed up on the beach after the monsoon which had whipped through on Tuesday afternoon.
Picking it up, he said, 'That's perfect for a clothes line prop. That's coming back with us'.
Now this opens up many questions...
Firstly, the washing line at our holiday home already has rather a lovely clothes prop, so it would be surplus to requirements here. Secondly, I have no washing line at home, and therefore have no need for a 6' long smooth stick. I therefore came to the conclusion, that knowing all this, the husband may have had an ulterior motive as he strode down the beach, planting his clothes prop firmly into the sand, looking like a much younger, shorter, beardless and bald version of Gandalf.
As I write, it's leaning against the wood store - he'll have plans for it, I'm sure, and I am slightly worried that it will be coming home with us - he'll probably make me buy a washing line, just to do his stick justice.
So back to yesterday and the second Biblical flood.... The husband, never one to worry me, had subtly been checking the canoes for leaks throughout the morning, in case an emergency evacuation was necessary. At one point, I saw him walk past the window at a 45 degree angle (did I tell you that the wind had picked up?) with piles of wood, lifejackets and some sandbags. He'd also greased himself up with some lard he found in the fridge and was encouraging me to do the same, just in case a swim was on the cards. Ever the boy scout, that one...
So the husband's sister and her beau Mr G tipped up after lunch. Luckily, their arrival heralded the end of the rain which had been falling steadily for over 24 hours.Taking the opportunity to escape, we removed the flood barrier which the husband had erected outside the front door and headed to Barmouth for a walk along the beach. Although the rain had stopped, the wind was still a force 9, and as we stepped onto the sand, Mrs W and I received a full facial exfoliation, followed by immediate sand blindness.
It was at this point I suddenly realised what that bloody stick was for. I reckon he's been building a raft on the quiet, and he's planning on using it as a mast. He'll probably want to use my voluminous pyjama bottoms as a sail and a pair of my control knickers as a flag.
The size of those pyjama bottoms, it might just be quicker than using the M54...
Picking it up, he said, 'That's perfect for a clothes line prop. That's coming back with us'.
Now this opens up many questions...
Firstly, the washing line at our holiday home already has rather a lovely clothes prop, so it would be surplus to requirements here. Secondly, I have no washing line at home, and therefore have no need for a 6' long smooth stick. I therefore came to the conclusion, that knowing all this, the husband may have had an ulterior motive as he strode down the beach, planting his clothes prop firmly into the sand, looking like a much younger, shorter, beardless and bald version of Gandalf.
As I write, it's leaning against the wood store - he'll have plans for it, I'm sure, and I am slightly worried that it will be coming home with us - he'll probably make me buy a washing line, just to do his stick justice.
So back to yesterday and the second Biblical flood.... The husband, never one to worry me, had subtly been checking the canoes for leaks throughout the morning, in case an emergency evacuation was necessary. At one point, I saw him walk past the window at a 45 degree angle (did I tell you that the wind had picked up?) with piles of wood, lifejackets and some sandbags. He'd also greased himself up with some lard he found in the fridge and was encouraging me to do the same, just in case a swim was on the cards. Ever the boy scout, that one...
So the husband's sister and her beau Mr G tipped up after lunch. Luckily, their arrival heralded the end of the rain which had been falling steadily for over 24 hours.Taking the opportunity to escape, we removed the flood barrier which the husband had erected outside the front door and headed to Barmouth for a walk along the beach. Although the rain had stopped, the wind was still a force 9, and as we stepped onto the sand, Mrs W and I received a full facial exfoliation, followed by immediate sand blindness.
It was at this point I suddenly realised what that bloody stick was for. I reckon he's been building a raft on the quiet, and he's planning on using it as a mast. He'll probably want to use my voluminous pyjama bottoms as a sail and a pair of my control knickers as a flag.
The size of those pyjama bottoms, it might just be quicker than using the M54...
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