Gisborne…
Okay folks, time for some lessons in pronunciation. I need your help.
How do you pronounce Gisborne?
Is it Gisborne as in ‘Borne’?
or
Is it Gisborne as in ‘Gisbn’?
Over to you as Guy’s too amused by it all.
Okay folks, time for some lessons in pronunciation. I need your help.
How do you pronounce Gisborne?
Is it Gisborne as in ‘Borne’?
or
Is it Gisborne as in ‘Gisbn’?
Over to you as Guy’s too amused by it all.
Over the last year, I’ve been one of those who said ‘I shall never read e-books; I am a paper, bindings, smell and sound type of girl,’ and as for publishing an e-book: ‘My God! Are you kidding?’ I’d read all the industry blogs on the increasing popularity or the e-book, I’d watched sales of e-readers climb and still I was unaffected.
Cousins? He jests, surely. Whatever he had been going to answer, this was not what I had expected to hear. I thought of Vasey the first time I had met him in Le Mans.
Something warmed my back and as I stretched, my shoulder was gently shaken. Through sleepy lids I could see the sun streaming into the chamber. Guy’s voice spoke just loud enough to push the last threads of slumber from my consciousness. ‘Ysabel, wake you. It’s time to dress and break your fast. The boat leaves in an hour.’
Sometime ago, way back in October 2010, I wrote a quick post about it being . . . ‘almost summer.’ I love the song by Billy Thorpe and I swore it would become my anthem.
Well it did indeed become my song! Here I am at the little beachside cottage and I’m revelling in the sun and the sound of waves and walking through the water with the dogs. Tonight we’re having a BBQ with friends who also live by the beach and we contributing all the fresh stuff we’ve grown from the garden: snowpeas, fresh peas, Kipfler potatoes, mint, baby carrots. We’ll throw red and white wine into the basket, and beer and shall sit around their wood-fired BBQ into the darkling hours and chat about this and that.
I’m having a holiday, friends. Haven’t had one for a year and so I’m off to renew my relationship with the ocean and things nautical. I’ll be in and out through our summer, but Mesmered is taken a small non-post break till January 1st, 2011, when the first post will be the new instalment of The Sheriff’s Collector.
(This next part of The Sheriff’s Collector is especially dedicated to MG, from Fly High, without whose friendship my love of all the series of Robin Hood would have been much less fun.)
The pain I felt as my ruined life rattled around me like a thunderstorm was stupendous, but Guy was there . . . as he had been every step of the way, and once again I let him take the pain away. I lifted my right hand to his and covered it as it lay on my jaw-line. There are times in life when one just wants to forget about concerns and cares. To ignore the shouted whisper of caution in the ear . . .
I can’t thank you enough for sticking with Mesmered over the last year. Your responses to my blogs, your willingness to engage with someone you don’t know from Adam, the way we have found so many things in common have been, for me, the stuff of legend!
There are times in life when one just wants to forget about concerns and cares. To ignore the shouted whisper of caution in the ear. To believe that nothing could ever be wrong and that every dream or fantasy one has ever had is about to be fulfilled. This was such a time.
The dirt stained the cloth that had been left for me and the water in the bowl looked as if it had been collected from a moat. I craved a warm scented bath, for my nails to be clean, for my hair to once again fall in a silky swathe. But it was not to be and I could see myself arriving before my father so travel-stained that I doubted he would recognize me. There was a chance he might not recognize me anyway as it had been three years since I had seen him. But worse, I had gleaned a subtext from Vasey’s words; that my father was not himself. He could have lost his mind with grief, he could be a soak, he could be anything but the man my mother had loved. I turned from the bowl to reach for clothes . . .