The World arrived in Galway Bay this week. I'm sure you are familiar with it - the world's largest yacht - costs a bomb - well it does because you have your own bedroom on your own private deck and families buy an apartment on it and oh god, I don't really know that much about it but that you have to be insanely wealthy and become accustomed to conversations at breakfast when the wife or partner says to the hubby; how about we block a week on The World, it's been a while and we need a break and this month it is docking in Galway and they are famous for oysters and crystal and Aran sweaters. And the hubby agrees and off they go. Simple. But I'd hate it. For a start, the bedroom looks quite scary. I cannot imagine looking for the loo in the middle of the night. I am known to start rooting in the closet at two a.m. and that railing looks very close to the bed and it might be great for someone trying to off load a spouse but hey, there has to be a cheaper method.
Oh but I do admit it was a magical sight. This massive significance of decadence that landed into our humble bay and what better timing could ever have been imagined because we are in the throes of a heatwave. You heard me. A heatwave. Thirty degrees each day. Nary a word of austerity on our lips. The natives all strolling around scantily clad, smiling, bronzed, like Greek gods and if the dreaded word 'austerity' does chance to rear its ugly head now and then, well we merely wipe it off our chins like the raspberry sorbet we've just devoured at three euro a pop and ask without too much hesitation to pass the sun tan oil, factor fifty if you please.
Even the dogs don't complain about not going for walks these days. It's too hot for galloping across the bogs. Instead they sprawl in seductive acceptance beneath the magnificent shade of the ash tree so lost in delirious dreams are they of far off rainy days that enabled glorious romps and sniffs and deposits of their unctuous markings on deserted lanes.
We do not finish eating until almost ten p.m. The remains of mussels and tomato sauce doused in garlic stains the patio table cloth and sun chairs scatter the lawn in strange psychedelic angles like odd abstract paintings, facing west, tilted back, down, broken, haphazard. Beach towels hardened from seasalt hang on the clothes line waiting for tomorrow and the windows remain open wide and the house creaks into submission of this 'never before' heat and I can't decide if it, this house, welcomes it or baulks at it like I cringe at The World. The very idea of it. The very notion of having to be on it. No, I would never live on The World because I live in the world. In my home. In the very place that keeps me moving. In the sea, the ebb and flow of my existence.