Sark Snark

Holding the bucket of vomit, Harry watched Lady Smock leave. The compromise weekend on Sark made neither of them happy. To top it off, he knew he should have fixed the sconce in the kitchen before they left. He could see it was gnawing her. Aggravated and angry he booted the bucket and watched it rocket off the dock and over the swelling water, trailing his bile.

Lady Smock heard the clatter and saw the volitant vomit ribbon through the air then heard it splatter across the waves. She marched up the hill, through the village with Harry, light-headed and empty from the channel crossing, following behind, bumping their wheeled suitcases along the cobbled road.

They checked into Sue’s B & B and Tea Garden. The proprietress, Nancy, gabbled on about the touchy shower which only produced enough warm water between 8:00 and 8:11 precisely, so be quick about it. They were. Afterwards they lay on the bed thinking about England.


Mal de mer

“Luv, let’s get away this weekend,” Harry said. “Take the ferry, have an adventure, romp in a four poster bed.”

Lady didn’t mention the hole in the wall or the crumbling parging or the sconce dangling from the kitchen window. She stopped nagging but it niggled nonetheless.

The crossing was rough and the ferry pitched and heaved. “Hang on”, said Lady and fetched a bucket while Harry turned green and clutched the railing. She watched rolling waves of mal de mer bring up lumps of vomit, stinking with his inadequacy.

Ashore, Harry held the battered bucket and watched his Lady leave.