Where did we go my little labia?

‘We need to get away.’ Mr Sunshine announced (He might actually have said, I need to get away, but I’ll overlook that for the sake of harmony).

Not sure why I'm so very fond of this

Great, a holiday in the sun, perhaps a health spa or even a city break? Nope - sneaky Mr Sunshine knows, I’m happy to go anywhere if it means I don’t have to cook. That’s why he could safely suggest three days in Belgium looking round caves. I’m not sure about you, but Belgium has never been high on my list as a holiday destination. After all, wasn’t Belgium just another version of the Nederlands and well, basically full of Belgium’s. And, while caves may seem romantic for some (cavemen), for me it meant wandering round the damp, dark interior of hills, peering into gloomy corners and counting the freezing drips on my head. Honestly, if we’d gone any slower I would have grown my own stalagmite.

And so the drips begin

Although the caves might not have been my perfect holiday, Belgium was! Mr Sunshine and I were blown away by the beauty and history of this small country. We stayed in a small faultless hotel just outside Dinant in the Ardennes, called L’ Auberge de Bouvignes (check out my review on trip advisor).   From the moment we arrived, Vincent (the owner) made our stay extra special, not just because he looked like Carl Pilkington, Mr Sunshine’s TV idol. But, because never stopped trying to make our stay perfect: wonderful breakfasts, offering the use of his bicycles, advice on the best caves to visit (hummm),  driving us to and from Dinant and recommending the best restaurants.

Beautiful Ardennes (if you look closely you can see my new house in the shadow of the ruin)

It was in one of these restaurants that Mr Sunshine suggested we have a proper conversation. We spent a few minutes looking at each other shyly, waiting for the other to start the conversation. Nothing happened; we had lost the art of conversation. Where did it go? What happened to the articulate, trendy couple who used to talk into the small hours?  

Our conversational skills had been traded for familiarity and our own unique language. We no longer talked in full sentences but, half muttered phrases and facial expressions. Sometime during the last 12 years we’d invented a whole host of new words to replace the need for normal conversation. Here are a few of the sillier ones:

Feeds = Feet or foot

 Mr Kipley = I’m going to sleep
 

Crispy = Fresh bedding

Donkel = Urine

Flip Flop = Defecate

Flap = As above

Tastetacular = Nice

Masturbation boss = Local forest

Mr Slinky = Alfie

Larry = The car

 (Who due to a sex change in the Nederlands and became)

Sarah Jessica Parker = The car

Scab–a-doom = Mr Sunshine’s home town

Rumpole of the Bailey = Sex

My little Labia = Me
(Until one very good and not so gullible friend pointed out labia- wasn’t in fact Scottish for Lady)

We might not have had a particularly intellectual chat that night, but we did giggle realising how low we’d stooped on the conversation roster.

Is it just us?

Trace xxx