Sat in the Nags Head car park biding my time, no wine. I saw no goats and had no truck. I repeat. No goats and no truck although mist blew our way from the waterfall. Thunderous cloud through cleft cliff, hewn by time geological. A father sits on the shingle shore watching son throw stones at the grey glass sea, flattened by no wind. Then clasps the boy tightly. A bird unprofitably pecks window and flies another coop. Cars flee from fond farewells.
…
Later the Dibbinsdale buzzes. The restaurant appears to be full. Unfortunately, in the bar, I seem to be sitting, alone, in a sweet spot to hear one person’s conversation. It isn’t interesting. Distracting. Sounds as if it might be a works night out but I could be mistaken. I’m trying to blank it out. It isn’t as if I am listening to a CEO discussing a potential acquisition or some similar interesting topic. Certainly not at the Dibbinsdale. It’s someone discussing what it might be like to work at other companies. I’m also hearing aubergine, mushroom bruschetta and goats cheese pizza.
I’m down here on my own because I had a couple of beers with dinner earlier (at the Nags Head) and don’t want to fall asleep. Beer is the answer. We are off out to some friends’ down the road a bit later. Staggering distance.
Tots phenomenal night last night at the snooker btw. Historic occasion. Nail biter. Mistakes by both players showing the pressure. That kind of night.