Deep Blue Something

Only 8 days to go before Slinky & Co are off again to paradise. The Only Friend is liable to burst with excitement before we ever get there. The Boy would burst except he's currently trying not to have a coronary.

You know how they say that nothing is quite as revealing as travelling with your significant other? If that's true, I suppose I should be worried. The Only Friend emailed about buying travel insurance for all of us. I, being deep in the red, decided that my bikinis weren't worth the $80 I would have to cough up if they lost my luggage and was happily prepared to live life dangerously uninsured. Then The Boy called.

The Boy: "Hey baby, I got you insurance."
Slinky: "Oh... er... thanks!" (I know, I am an ungrateful minx, but I was a little underwhelmed. When it comes to presents, flowers beats insurance any day, even if the latter is far more practical. Nevertheless, I was touched. Right up until ...)
The Boy: "It's okay. Anyway, our gear wouldn't be covered by it unless we got insurance." (laughs at horrendous amount fishing gear cost vs. puny amount travel insurance covered.)
Slinky: "....oh." (even more underwhelmed now)
The Boy: (perhaps detecting the underwhelmed-ness) "It also takes care of things like flying your body back in case you die." This was said in a helpful, rather eager manner, like when the Fuzzy brings me her ball and sits, looking for approval.
Slinky: "Um. Yay?"

Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful. I mean, stuff like being dragged screaming overboard by a giant tunafish is bound to happen, since I managed to escape it the last time. (This is especially so since we ar hoping for even bigger fish than the last time, and the Number One Rule is Don't Let Go Of The Rod, No Matter What.) And as we have covered extensively in many, many posts before, I have no money. But I was kind of hoping for something more romantic than free cadaver transport in the likely event of my horrible death.

However, The Boy called again today to inform me that he ahd prepared me a Maldives Survival Kit, and refused to tell me what was in it.

"Plasters?" I ventured, having vivid memories of the last trip.
"No!"

I still don't know what it contains. He says it's a surprise.

To practice for the upcoming fishing extravanganza, we recently practised casting. Well, he practised casting. I kind of waved what felt like half a ton of pig iron ineffectually in the direction of the water. To break things up, The Boy decided we would try dry fishing, where he was the 200-lb fish and I was the fisherman. He hung on to the end of the line, ran off, then instructed me to reel him in while having a conversation on the phone.

It sounded a bit like this: "Hi, it's me. Yeah lah, just doing some training at.. wait {yells) Reel, harder! {tugs, immediately followed by muffled screaming from the other end of the rod} Yeah, no, the girlfriend is practising (tugs, screaming, etc) on the heavy rod lah..."

At this rate I don't think I'm going to be any better at it than I was the last time around.