Earlier this summer, after weeks of grey skies and gale-force winds, there happened along a still, clear, airbrush-perfect evening.
"I'm heading out the East Neuk to go fishing," said Dr G, "Want to come?"
"Yeah. I don't really want to catch anything; I just fancy going to the sea."
"And to the chippie afterwards?" The chippie being the famous Anstruther Fish Bar, home of the chip buttie.
And that is when my brain did a freaky little flashback almost ten years. "No!" I blurted, all panicky. "You go. I'm staying put."
Since we got hitched Dr G and I have gone to Anstruther about twice a summer. I'd eat my fish and chips and enjoy every crispy salty piping hot morsel. No big deal, just one of those treasured rituals. But this time round I went into crazy full-on freakout mode. I've got to get my lard under control. That'll never happen if I eat fish and chips. I'll never get back into my winter coat. I'll be a wobbly failure forever.
I grumped on the couch while Gareth organised his fishing gear. After ten minutes it occurred to me, Dude, am I really back to this bullshit kind of thinking?
I mean, a sunny evening in Scotland is rare as a copy of Heat magazine without an article about Katie Price. You can not just sulk on the couch with a salad on a night like that. And furthermore… did I really want to become a diet-obsessed hermit again, hiding away in the house for fear of running into tasty calories? Did I really want my life to be that bloody DULL? Whatever happened to the good old days of balance and moderation? Let's bring 'em back!
Wondering if Scottish jellyfish are as lethal as Aussie ones…
Watching Gareth land a rare seaweedfish….
And marvelling at how the clouds arranged themselves into a letter G to celebrate Dr G's astounding catch.