Today I lay in bed thinking of the marmalade. Cardamom House chefs squeeze succulent locally-grown line-oranges and then toss back the golden peel, creating a lively, bittersweet jewel of a preserve; wonderful and worth jumping out of bed for.
Then in the afternoon as I am reading and snoozing with my feet up against the balustrade an American arrives. After three days without visitors, the sound of nature only mine, the staff caring only for me, this blazon man strides in and wants to share what has become my own lavish peace! How dare he! You will all understand the type of American who has invaded Cardamom House; one such man might be President in a day or so. I find it most disturbing to hear another conversation, (unless there is intrigue, gossip or scandal) against the simplicity of the pleasant sounds encircling Cardamom House. ‘Good Lord Man,’ I wanted to shout, ‘This is not a cruise ship. Keep your crude voice to yourself!’ Strangely he was on his own, I guess in his early sixties, (porky men can look so much older) but spend some time talking to an apparition. He did not have headphones on while making a phone call, an easy mistake, or on skype, or speaking into a dictating machine as a journalist or a detective would. I never found out his name, but he was a bulk of an American in the style of Hemingway, a thick grey beard, rectangle glasses he kept fidgeting with, kept running his fingers over his bulbous nose and continually distributed sweat about his forehead, all the while talking to this strange being, as if his wife was dead and he could not travel without her company. I said good afternoon, I said good evening, I said goodnight, each time he ignored me as if I was an apparition!
News arrived, the ship arrives tomorrow. Hallelujah! Shippers need my passport immediately for the Landy to be delivered out of customs in four days’ time. Sent a passport copy and booked a train ticket. I love trains. Leave tomorrow.