At ten to seven in the evening I was limping like a cripple up to the unsavoury rear entrance of Exmouth railway station, having woken up the previous day with an unexplained injury to my foot. This was a momentous moment: Lush and I have known each other since I joined this forum in 2002; we've taken part in the Yahoo Voice Chat readings that some of you may remember, and we were two of the worst offenders in the infamous Lupercalia thread. Sometimes, I even read her blog. We know all sorts of things about each other, but we'd never been in the same room. I was still getting used to the unfamiliar voice that I'd been speaking to on the phone belonging to someone with whom I've been exchanging e-mails and other communications for the best part of eight years. People look different in pictures; what if I didn't recognise her? Could I gloss over a
faux pas of that magnitude?
The answers were respectively: I did, immediately; and of course I could, because I really am that charming. The train arrived just as I did, heralding a busy weekend.
Friday night was expended in catching up. I'm not the best person at keeping in touch, as other forum members will attest; and Lush has been a very busy girl over the last few years. After about an hour I suddenly remembered that I keep drinks in the flat, and that some people like to take in liquids sometimes. Out came the port and two utterly inappropriate glasses, my last port glass having gone the way of all flesh some time ago. I was not allowed to open the 1999 August Ziegler that I've been saving for a special occasion, although it
will have to be drunk eventually. "This place looks like a museum," I was told appreciatively. I had to admit that I've put a lot of my personality into it. We accompanied the port with an exotic local delicacy: cod and chips twice. Where Lush lives, I discovered, they still serve it in newspaper, but here they have to use surgical grade sterile dressing paper because of health and safety. We managed to watch
Tomkinson's Schooldays too, but only just. It's a long way down here from Liverpool, and everyone needs to sleep sometimes.
Saturday began late, which is just as well as I was the driver for our planned trip to Glastonbury. Somehow I cooked scrambled eggs, which I haven't tried to do in years (to be honest I'm still relieved that I didn't give another forum member food poisoning), and eventually we got going at about eleven. Lush may not think that she can pull off the Grace Kelly look, but I'm not so sure; given the right car, it could be a close-run thing. For some reason I parked miles outside town (I'd never been before) and it's a good thing that the sun was shining. Still, we got there in the end, climbed the tor, listened to some beatniks playing didgeridoos and took in the view, which is impressive. After having our photograph taken for our adoring public, we made our way back down the hill. I wasn't allowed to break my ankle (because Lush can't carry someone my size), so I didn't. At this point, Lush miraculously transformed into a damosel, so I took a picture.
We found our way to the abbey after a couple of false starts and had a wander in the grounds, discussing this and that. We saw a Benedictine monk, but I'd forgotten to charge my phone so there are no pictures of him. It's not easy to keep up with Lush in conversation, but by listening a lot I managed not to look completely witless. She has many interesting stories to tell, as befits someone who has lived in several countries and interviews photographers for a living. I filled in with interesting things that have happened to people I know. The sun continued to blaze down as though Somerset had realised that I wanted it to make a good impression; the trees were covered with clouds of blossom and all in all it was a perfect English spring afternoon, such as I'd usually have to invent. If Lush becomes rich, we may have tea and cucumber sandwiches on the lawn of a house we saw. By this point I realised that my foot had stopped hurting, and that my limp was gone; if not for all that walking I'd probably still be lame.
Saturday evening was spent in my favourite pub, and we ate on a balcony overlooking the sea. That sounds better than it was, because we were freezing when we adjourned inside; it is still May after all. Several rounds later we went back to the flat to sleep off all the walking.
Sunday was spent around Exmouth. Duty called for Lush, so I contented myself with making tea and being a distraction by reading out random things from
Mallorn, Tolkien's letters and
The English: are they Human (author's answer: no). Once the paying work was taken care of, we walked out to the marina, along the promenade and up onto the cliffs above Orcombe Point, where in my obsessive desire to document the whole visit in minute detail I took a second picture.
In answer to Hookbill, I did wear a hat for this, because I looked like a boiled lobster after Saturday's hiking. It kept blowing off and was a cause of great hilarity, so perhaps I should consider sewing them on. After supper, we took a turn along the beacon to see the houses of Lady Byron (her daughter was the first computer programmer, you know) and Lady Nelson (Exmouth was popular with the jilted wives of national figures), and finished up with an episode of
Dad's Army (for afficionados, it was
Time on my Hands). Apparently, them Germans make just about everything rather well.
On Monday (a public holiday, as luck would have it) there was just enough time for tea, toast and a bit more conversation before I saw Lush onto the train back to London. As so often when I meet other forumites, I wish we could have had a bit longer, and I certainly hope that it won't be another eight years before we meet again. I just hope that I can survive normality after that concentrated fabulousness.