Suitably braindead. Overfed. Pink and bitten. Aimless. Biddable. Tipsy. Chlorinated. Uncoordinated. Intermittently nostalgic. Comfortably disoriented.  In a perpetual state of emerging from or gravitating back towards bed.

The yarns have been manifold/colourful and the mishaps amusing. Some activities, in summary: sloppy synchronised swimming, epic water battles, cricket, crosswords, Wiggles workouts, Pimms drinking, garden wandering, halfhearted sketching, bric-a-brac amassing, old diary reenactments, pyjamaed slapstick and more laidback quippery and double entendre than you could poke a (literal) stick at.

So. Scrapes and bites. Choking on salmon bones the size of pine needles. Some absent friends. Some lessons learned (e.g. when driving in a convertible with the top down, seatbelts make for disastrous tan lines).  The end of an era, in a lot of ways.

Our last days at Kautuku, for one. I got married on the lawn (above) five years ago.

I can’t get my head to work any more. It hurts. I think I might go and scrape some melted handmade chocolate out of a tray and enjoy one last drink under a multitude of country stars now. And then I will go to bed and read until the wee small hours of the morning, just because I can.


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