He Wears A Yellow Jumper
Going to Stornoway with the chidderkins for a couple of weeks. Because this trip has worse connections than a two-bob psychic we leave tonight but are not actually going to get to Sunny Stornoway til Thursday morning. I feel like a salmon swimming, struggling upstream in a mighty, epic journey to the spot of my spawning, where I will probably be half-eaten by a bear. (Hedgehogs are our largest carnivores though, I think. Prolly be half eaten by a hedgehog if half-eaten by anything); or die flopping uselessly in the sunshine on the banks of the river Creed, mouth opening and closing silently as I slip away, cursing this life and its miseries, and maybe cursing you too, so be nice to me. Or maybe the metaphor Gods will switch the analogy on what the trip is like when we get there and I won’t have to die. I just hope it’s not any metaphor to do with the Middle East or the hills of Bora Bora.
They say it’s sunny there right now and, in the larger sense, I suppose it always is*, but some days the clouds don’t agree. So in the hopes of luring a behatted sun out to shine on our wearied, jet-lagged, holiday-making limbs, I am going to spend most of the fortnight in a canary-yellow jumper singing wholesomely in various groovy positions upon a boat, like my most current crush, the enigmatic Mr. Daniel Of Donnell. I think you’ll agree that this is him at his finest (and dishiest. *Blush*). Aren’t his moves just the Very. Living. End? *Swoony*. I don’t know about you other girls, but I’m going for a bit of a lie down.
Anyway, Danny Boy…baby… I dedicate this holiday to you…
*Looks into middle distance profoundly, contemplating the larger resonances of what I just said. That’s profoundly, see? Profoundly. Not vacantly, dreamily, absent-mindedly or constipatedly, OK? I don’t care what anyone says, that’s my profound look. Shut up.