We're off tomorrow. Road trip, baby. Many questions now pose themselves. Will I be allowed to play 'Thunder Road' for the entire four hours? Just how many times can Data throw up within this short time-frame? And at what point will my 'Are we there yet?' inspired fantasies of steering swiftly over the white line and plowing into an oncoming truck become a shocking reality?
We're going to Clare. There's a beach, some caves and The Burren. I vaguely remember studying The Burren in fourth class geography and failing to buy into the whole 'This is a reeeally interesting place, honest goys!' bit that was being peddled by the uber-trendy teacher who was to subsequently organise an assembly in order that the entire school might listen to The Joshua Tree on the day of its release. Make of that what you will.
So what's The Burren again? Some flat rocks made from citrus fruit? Flora and fauna? Grikes and clints? And given that we're not talking the Eastwood kind here, I am already fucking snoring. I anticipate standing in a visitor's centre learning about rare flowers with approximately the same amount enthusiasm that I normally reserve for the idea of a good sound sounding.
The caves may have proved more interesting, what with the endlessly diverting conversations about whether stalagmites grow up, down or into oddly El Grecan representations of Roisin Ingle's form. And I am reliably informed by some gym randomer that a sudden illumination of one particular section is nothing short of spectacular. I won't get to see this though, as it has been decided that Data might find the experience too frightening and I have volunteered to be the responsible adult who will be taking her for a consolation ice-cream. Although, if she's going to be such a pussy about it, she should be sorting out her own alternative arrangements. What kind of three year old are we raising up here?
Also on offer for Gimme is the inarguably exciting prospect of cleaning up a different collection of rooms, tidying up a whole new mountain of cheap plastic crap and patriarchy pimping children's magazines, and his very, very favourite, washing up a set of dishes never before washed by his expert washing-up hands.
'This holiday is not about you', I have been informed by Common Law.
Again with the deluded.
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