27.8.12

XLV: Lost in Translation

When we caught Jim, I told The American to put him in the boot to secure him while we decided what to do with him.


Proof, then, that she does not speak proper English.

20.8.12

XLIV: In Which We Make Our Own Fun

Utter boredom drove us to play hide and seek. We gave Jim a head start . . .


He doesn't exactly blend in.

But then he tried to disarm the security system.

So we put him in holding . . .

And then behind bars . . .
Have I mentioned The American's toy tiger?  His name is Canaille. Despite the name, we've found him amenable to some training.


There may have been other shenanigans and/or misuse of laundry.


Then came a child's birthday party. We waited in abject horror for what was to come:


And also of her shirt:


The toys, however, were not so bad.


6.8.12

XLIII: Once by the Pacific

This morning I set out with Jim (yes, Jim as opposed to John, who chose to stay home) with the idea of taking him to San Quentin.


But damn it all, we got a bit turned around and ended up somewhat out of our way.


Don't talk to me about my sense of direction, John; I wasn't the one driving, after all. And San Quentin isn't even on this map:


Predictably, we ended up out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, the most boring place to be. Though some of it reminded me of home:

A lookout spot at Point Reyes



And after I pointed out the sunglasses were ridiculous given how cloudy it was:



It's not quite the moors, but . . .


There was a lot of driving involved, then a lot of walking, and for what gain? Not even a spectral dog or government conspiracy to keep me interested. Cows, though. Many, many cows . . .

No, John, I don't have a picture of the cows. Why would I?

There was a ranch, just for her, however:



Then, just for something different . . .


Yes, John, we climbed into a tree. What's that? K-I-S . . . You're sick. You realize that, I hope?

There was a lighthouse, by the by:


Again with the sunglasses.

Not a very big one. And after 308 stairs to get down to it, too.

We did see what supposed experts assured us was a juvenile grey whale. No, John, it was not in the lighthouse; it was down in the water. If it had been in the lighthouse, that might have been a mystery worth looking into.



After walking back up the 308 stairs, we went into a town that calls itself Inverness but has nothing on the real thing (by which I mean Scotland, of course), and had a late lunch at a Czech pub called Vladimir's.

A Czech pub in Inverness? Run by a vampire?

With appropriately bloody decor.


After which we came home over the Golden Gate Bridge:


If only Alcatraz were still an option . . .