The guest-house proprietors were an odd, mismatched couple, in their fifties, I’d guess – he, short, understated, a little creepy; she, a tall matronly type, usually sporting a well-practised smile.
Arming myself with a tennis racquet, I tiptoed along the hallway and into the kitchen to confront the intruders.
It’d be almost another year of blasting it out on repeat though til the song actually got into my bones, got in there so deeply, that it took me by the hand and transported me into my new life.
The band members are shimmering like an aurora on the stage. Daryl’s spunky in white satin. Garth’s hot on the keyboards. I love them both.
That’s it. That’s the bit in the song. The gulp catches my breath. Staring out the windscreen and emotion spills from me and fogs the glass.
Night times were sunburnt agony. We both lay on the edge of the bed far away from each other hissing 'Don’t touch me'. Not what you want on your honeymoon.
I heard someone yell over the waves crashing to call 9-1-1, and several beach goers came to help and scooped mud.
Surely Robert Forster wasn’t a surfer, you initially think. He’s having a lend of us. But he isn’t. Or is he?
He could barely speak English. I could barely speak Italian. But somehow, we communicated with one another, almost playing a silent game.
A few seconds pass. His gaze goes behind the counter. To a small ornate wooden frame. And an image inside. “Is that Mary?” “No. It’s Jesus. It’s a da Vinci. From a museum in Amsterdam.”