Miz Quickly wants us to write about getting wet feet, a thing I seldom do, taking willingly to wellies where necessary. Cold feet, yes, about lots of things, but that’s another story.
A New Year ’s Day trip to an artist’s studio-cum-café in Seychelles saw us waiting at a bus stop when the monsoon started in earnest. Machine gun bullets rained down on hapless, helpless ViV and Jock. So what, we grinned cheerfully, it was a nice warm drenching.
The bus gave up when the flood reached the top of the tyres, so we got off and trudged through near waist-high water to the café. Power was off – not unusual – so having admired all the artwork, we waited steaming slightly while lunch was improvised. I was not popular when I sat down at the horrendously out of tune grand piano and played Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude.
We had to catch the Islander plane back to Mahé to be there for work next day, so we decided to walk the few miles to the airstrip, finding that the driest place on the island was the beach. We thought we’d missed our plane, but found the airport crammed with passengers waiting for the flood to subside so aircraft could land. Eventually the sky cleared, a plane arrived, filled up with stranded passengers, and went there and back and there and back, first come first served. Home and dry.
A polite plonker haiga ─ image borrowed from the Kitchen’s Garden