Nightmare

Friday

Emma and I drove up to North Yorkshire for the weekend. Crossing the North Yorkshire Moors, I noticed a sign that read ‘Hole of Horcum’. Remembering this from a map, I wondered out loud as to the what and the exact whereabouts of ‘the hole’. ‘Mm, dunno’ mumbled a tired Emma, as I glanced across at her and:

Shane: Aaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh – I think I’ve found the hole!
Emma: (looking left) Bloody hell! That would be the hole.
Shane: Dizzy!
Emma: Keep looking ahead - and slow down.
Shane: Ok – slow down – look ahead… Oh my god I think my heart is going to pop out of my chest. My stomach’s gone all tense. Aaaaarrrrggggghhhhh – nightmare vertigo-driving-high-up-by-a-big-drop-with-no-barrier-or-wall type-scenario!
Emma: Don’t over-react.
Shane: I can’t breathe.

Anyway, we arrived in Whitby at around 6pm. As Emma was paying, I didn’t mind the cringe-worthy chandelier.

As neither of us drink very much or very often, we decided to throw on big thick woolly jumpers and go out on a pub crawl – with real beer.

We eventually settled in the corner of some harbour-side den, and listened to a young singer lady.

During a break in the performance, Emma insisted that I go and chat with the singer – spread the love and all that. So I did. As we chatted, As I chatted, the young singer achieved that look that people possess when they’re thinking ‘Are you a mentalist? You’re not from round here, are you?’ I wished her well, then moved away.

Emma: Say anything interesting?
Shane: She doesn’t know any Damien Rice, she used to know a Tori Amos song, no to U2, used to know REM’s ‘Electrolite’ – it got embarrassing so I stopped making requests. She only gigs around Whitby as she can’t drive cos she’s got dodgy eyesight. She also works as an alternative therapist, and she looked generally very scared of me.
Emma: You sound like you’re having one of your autistic nights.
Shane: Shall we get more drinks?

Emma spotted a fish stain on my big black coat from where I’d earlier dropped some of my takeaway fish. (During that purchase I learned that the Whitby fleet had already reached many of their quotas for whitefish, thus, the much-vaunted ‘local fresh fish’ was being imported from Iceland and the Faroe Islands. Oh, and that the ‘Woof’ is a catfish).

We drank a bit more then returned to the guest house.

Emma brushed her teeth as I watched the end of Newsnight Review on BBC2.

Slipping into bed, all set for relaxation and what have you, I was but moments from a horrible flashback to my earlier hole trauma. Ho hum.

(Saturday to follow)