Nightmare at the Museum
Thursday! I’m not gonna lie. I believe it rained this morning. I’m not completely sure. I mean it could have been the lawn sprinklers. I laughed to myself as I casually checked the hammock to see how damp it was so I could correctly judge if it had actually rained. This is exactly how I’d check if it had rained when I was at home. The hammock was indeed damp. Does dew form on hammocks I don’t know. Let’s just say that Steve went on holiday to Bermuda and it rained. Laugh it up bitches! No surprise, I went out walking anyway. I made it as far as the beach and took this picture.
I laughed to myself again. How the hell is a “rainy” day anywhere near this beautiful? Talking of beauty. I removed my shoes and socks and executed the middle third of my morning walk with the warm sea lapping at my horrific feet. There was a guy walking towards me. He was 100% taking a work call whilst walking through the surf on a Bermudan beach. My whole career has been wasted. I NEVER achieved that pinnacle of cool. Maybe I could get my old job back? Just for a week or so.
No that would be bad. I would end up doing a full Reggie Perrin and just walk off into the waves. “Steve, you’re on mute… your camera isn’t on either. Steve… do you want to dial back in?” Glug glug … Maybe I’ll turn the camera on so they could see me end it all. Wow, I’m not saying my working life was bad, but here I am fantasising about taking my own life on a Teams call.
Lucky I’m retired eh?! Suddenly I realise that I’m a long way from my hotel and my feet are covered in sand. I don’t recall how to resolve this situation from my childhood. Maybe my mum could pick me up and hold my feet under a tap? Hmm not sure the old dear would be up for that anymore. Not because I’m a big fat git. She’s just very lazy these days! I put my shoes and socks on over the sand and proceed to walk a couple of miles with my skin being rubbed thinner and thinner with every step.
Oh joy of joys…I’m in a sweaty, sandy and thoroughly unpleasant state by the time I make it back to the hotel from my walk. I probably should take a shower. But then I’d get sand in the shower and the little lady would complain. Plan B. I’ll just go to the pool to wash my sweat away and then let the hot tub bubbles blast the sand and other detritus from between my toes, out of my belly button and from any other crevice where it may be hiding. Disgusting maybe, but will my wife be happy? Yes she will, because I’m a great husband!
I return to the room to be told I need another shower. What the hell? Apparently my cleansing routine doesn’t meet her high standards!
Today’s plan is go to a museum and learn all about the history of Bermuda. Well I’m pretty sure I can guess. Island is empty. The brave British army folk rock up with guns. Claim an amazing victory. Build a holiday destination for retirees and other fabulously wealthy people. The End. Transpires there was some other shit that went down that most of the tourists kind of try to ignore. Pretty sure the British didn’t do anything wrong, because they never have.
Anyway, I’d forgotten what it was like taking “Snuckems” to a museum. She reads every single sign. Looks at every exhibit. Watches every video. Honestly, Uxoricide is the only answer. It’s possible by the time the little lady looks up what it means it will be too late. Here is how different we are…. She’s reading about how many prisoners were transferred here during the Boer War…. I’m taking cock pics.
She’s reading all about the slave trade or how Bermuda helped to censor communications during the Second World War. I’m outside waving my hat at a webcam for the folks back home. That is a fantastic idea in principle. My parents get to see me on a webcam on the other side of the planet. Amazing. In practice, try explaining how to achieve this via text messages to an 80 something couple, who are tech savvy to a point. That point is somewhere in the chapter before… how to see your son in Bermuda on a webcam. After much hard work to get them to the point where I’m on screen, my mother texts to tell me to stop waving my arms “you look like an idiot!” … awww thanks mum… love you too xxx
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| Obviously me! |
Look this history is all fascinating I’m sure but there comes a point where any National Museum needs to take a long hard look at itself and say … is this exhibit really what visitors to Bermuda need. Honestly, I don’t want to slag the museum off, but they need to realise that not a single person on planet earth needs to see fecking Michael fecking Anfossi’s fecking Outboard fecking Motor fecking Collection. Not even my wife wants to see that shit!! It is shit Bermuda. You know it’s shit. Why oh why is it in your National shitting Museum???
At this point we made our excuses and left. There was a bus back to my hotel I needed to be on. I mean, I had nothing to do with the rest of the day but sitting alone blogging to myself had to be more interesting than any minute of Michael Anfossi’s sad lonely existence. I say lonely, at least he had his outboard motors for company.
Tomorrow is my birthday. I know what I’m hoping for…
A vintage British Seagull engine ... Either that or a T-shirt with a comedy slogan about Bermuda on it....
Happy Birthday to me!!
... Yes mother I did actually buy this t-shirt! 57 and never growing up!
