THE MULLET MAKES AN APPEARANCE

So I forgot to write about the punting so more – here’s the rest of the story.

After what shall now be known as the “Cambridge Swan Incident”, Ray proceeded to safely punt us up (or down? Hard to tell with the lack of current) the river along the Backs. It was neat to see all the ancient colleges from the backside, across lawns extending from the buildings to the river. It’s a bit much to describe, so I encourage you all to whip out your guidebooks (or the ever-handy Google) to look at some pictures yourselves. We will take pictures during our next outing, but wisely decided to leave the camera at home for our inaugural punt in case we ended up in the water. Luckily we stayed dry!

Punting is relaxing for the puntee but I think less so for the punter. I got to relax in the punt (they sort of have little seats) while Ray was in charge of propulsion and steering. Well, he is an engineer! I contributed to the navigational effort, as in “Oh no, we’re about to hit the side of that bridge!” or “Careful, we’re about to tip that other punt!”. It appears that I am a backseat punter. I have promised to try it myself next time though, so Ray will get his turn to boss me around.

Despite several near collisions, and a few actual hits (reminded me of “You sank my battleship!!”), we did actually make it a ways up the river and safely back to the Darwin punt house within the allotted time. The important thing to note about the collisions, a few of which I’m sure we'll have whenever we have ya’ll over here and take you out, is that punts move awfully slow so there is none of the spectacle and flying bodies that one might anticipate. Just disconcerted looks on the faces of those in the punt you are about to strike, and a volley of “Watch it, mate”, “Brace yourself, mate”, and finally, “Sorry mate, cheers!”.

After punting the skies returned to looking ominous (see previous comment about the weather here) and we scurried home to cook a tasty meal and tuck in. So that was Sunday!

I know you have been eagerly reading to figure out where THE MULLET fits into all this. Well, it doesn’t – remember, I’ve been talking about Sunday, and it’s actually Tuesday, when THE MULLET-sighting occurred. For those of you blissfully unaware of THE MULLET, let me refer you to this website. What else can I say?

Now the British seem to pride themselves on being fashion-savvy. For the most part, they do look great and as a dowdy Canadian West Coaster, I am taking careful notes (i.e., be prepared for me to return to Canada a babe, or at least a babe-in-training). But amongst all the finery I have spotted the occasional fashion victim, and I have decreed that being the owner of A MULLET puts you right at the top of the list. Sorry, Elvis Stoiko, I just had to get that off my chest.

In any case, my resolve is holding firm, and I have not yet been struck by a desire to run to a salon, plunk my hard-earned cash down, and beg to be MULLETED, as Frances predicted, nor have I got my hair in curlers with a fag hanging from my droopy lower lip, as predicted by Marion. It’s still early in our sojourn here, though.