My Dear Athletic Darling
You have told the story of meeting my mother elsewhere. At the time you met her, we were staying in what was once a beautiful boutique hotel called Casuarina Country Inn & Restaurant. It is nestled amongst over laden grape wines with a mountain range majestically dominating the skyline from our front door. The photo below just doesn’t do it justice. I know we googled it recently and read some of its reviews. It has clearly fallen on hard times and has seen better days. That was not its problem when we stayed there. When we took up residence they had nine exquisitely appointed theme suites. These were fitted out in various styles including British Empire, Australian Colonial, Japanese Imperial and even French Bordello. We however didn’t stay in one of the themed rooms though; we stayed in a self contained cottage.
One of the principal reasons I wanted to take you to Casuarina was to enjoy the restaurant. It was one of the few places still trading where you could experience full guéridon dining. I don’t think you were familiar with the style. I remember explaining that the chef comes to the table with the ingredients already prepared and a portable stove. They then cook your meal before your very eyes. You sometimes still see it with simple dishes such as Crepe Suzette and Steak Dianne, but it is increasingly rare if not unheard for an entire menu to be devoted to this style of service. I had dined there before and really wanted to treat to you to this spectacle. It saddens me to say I don’t remember one jot of it. I was so nervous that my mother was meeting you, that I don’t recall a thing from that meal.
Until now however I have avoided the crux of this story. What, may you ask, do they not build like they used to? I know you have the answer. If you’re not giggling right now there must be something very wrong. You know, because you laid beside me on that broken device. Having dealt with meeting my mother, we needed to blow off some steam. We adjourned to our bed, and for some reason we ended up naked. We partook in some vigorous horizontal folk dancing and the bed imploded. The bed we were “sleeping in” collapsed under the strain and there we were with our heads towards the floor and our feet in the air. Just to be clear this wasn’t a weight related structural failure. I blame you!
Back Achingly Yours
From Sir With Love
My Dear Destructive Sir,
I am blushing at the content of this letter, but I shall muddle through it.
Oddly enough I remember the Casuarina very well. The clubhouse we stayed in was huge with 3 bedrooms and vintage furniture. It was a delightful, quaint place. We had visited your father in the hospital earlier that day, and we were getting ready to go out for the evening.
I know you were extremely nervous having dinner with your mom and her friend, plus the strain of having your father in the hospital didn’t help with your anxiety. I was just happy to be with you.
I was familiar with sitting around a grill while having a chef cook dinner, but this dining experience was quite a bit different; I thank you for it. Unfortunately, I don’t recall the details of this evening either. I do remember while I was getting ready to go out, I discovered that I had brought the wrong shoes. I had left the ones I wanted back at your house in Merrylands (a suburb of Sydney). You reassured me that my shoes were fine. I never worry over shoes; your tension was rubbing off on me.
After seeing your father, we came back to our lodgings to (as you so aptly stated) blow off some steam. I remember rubbing your shoulders and your hands wandered all over my body. As things got intense, we had a shocking jolt. Our bed broke! The head of our bed had disconnected from the headboard, and we tilted! Our heads were down nearly on the floor and our feet up towards the ceiling. I was aghast, but then you started laughing hysterically. I am sure I joined in the laughing spree after I got over my embarrassment. You pushed the bed back together, and we changed rooms. I am not sure how much tension was relieved for you, but it wasn’t for lack of trying!
I love the picture of the bed pre our destruction. I am not sure if I made eye contact with you during dinner after we broke that damn bed, but you kept your hand on my knee under the table. (See a pattern- damn noise, damn bed?) Of course you blame me, I am a seductress. *wink wink*
Your partner in crime,
©2013 Darling and Sir