May 21, 2008

Dancing, Dare I Say It, On the Ceiling

Dancing A frantic drive to the house....

Frantic because Nicole has lost the keys to the palatial abode, though part way there they appear between the linings of her bag. How they got there is still a mystery.

But when we arrive the rumours of the house's magnificence prove not entirely unfounded, what with the 2 acre garden and manicured borders of palm and gum surrounding the single-storey sub-mansion which sits on a hill, level on one side, on stilts some thirty feet high on the other.

A deck runs around the main room which is a huge open-plan affair with a kitchen in one corner, a dining table in another, a living room in another. Off to one side is the master bedroom with en-suite and dressing room, off to the other a little complex of bedrooms, bathrooms and laundry rooms.

A hammock hangs lazily on the deck outside our room, and in the corner of the deck is a little faux-castle-tower wot you eat yer breakfast on.

Having carried out an inspection, we adjourn to the beach, and after a brief sojourn at a golf club about which I choose to go into no detail whatsoever we return for tea and dancing.

It turns out that the CD player has trouble with our CDs leaving a cassette which was in the house, I am told, which contains Lionel Richie. Anne seems delighted with the intolerability of it all.

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