Heated seats. Dog-smelling coffee-smelling cig-stinking car, flashy. Jason. A strange, American name for a non-descript Yorkshire man meeting strangers on a society ramble over misty hot chocolate and, of course, as would be expected, inviting them immediately out on another daytrip.
Jason was not my friend. I came with Sarah. It was a kind of date, I guess, and she wanted a bit of support, safety, from a girlfriend. Someone to suss out the psycho. Which, as it turned out, was definitely present. Lurking in the shy, introverted man who engaged in innocent, wholesome activities. One might have met Jason in church. But no, we met him on a bloody-buggering-freezingcold walk.
I’d always wanted to come to this castle, so it was a bonus daytrip for me. Time taking pictures, while I still used to, while I still felt like there was some point to documenting our experiences, before I realised that everything had been done before. Christmas was arriving too, and of course, that always makes people feel like everything is new. Every idea is brilliant and ingenious. Every look is meaningful. Please, please, they were thinking. Please let there be something here. Despite a complete lack of excitement at each other. More, the excitement of the idea. The idea that something lovely might come out of these splendid, quiet little adventures. Not something sordid, not something real, nothing connected to real life at all. Something done on bonus time. How could you think about the ending if this thing was completely ignorable, unreal, something you didn’t necessarily have to have anyone know about. Perhaps I should try my hand at holiday romance.
Sounds quite freeing.
We looked at gaudy baubles hung on a spindly natural tree; bright, cheering tack decorating the ancient, classy building. Fantastic sculptures, fountains, lakes, endless folds of green. Or rather, white. I couldn’t wait for bonfire night. Fireworks in these surroundings. That would be pleasant.
Yes, that would be pleasant.