Last Friday we drove to the East Coast with Wayne and Keren. Originally, the objective was to go snorkeling – at least, that was my plan. However, Andrew bailed – said he was never keen on the idea and I just blithely assumed he would enter the spirit of snorkdom without adequate consultation (here’s where a rolling-eye smiley would come in useful). Then Wayne got The Lurgy and Keren feared a snorkel might incubate bacteria – not to mention introducing the danger of his choking on his own mucous. [But what a way to go! Sounds like a rockstar check out.]
Eventually we drove 180km to eat lunch and sit in a swimming pool, in much the same manner we would have done had we remained in Dubai. However, everyone agreed that it was worthwhile to get away from the city.
Keren and I go in for Extreme Gossip – we have been known to keep a conversation alive for five hours with only a two-minute break for refreshment (as per universal regulations applicable to competition chat). We yapped all the way out of Dubai, one and a half hours to the East Coast, through lunch, included the guys for some group discussion in the pool and on into the changing rooms.
WELL, what a shocker: we were out-talked by The Boyz. I didn’t think it possible to sustain a conversation about motorbikes, computers and soldering techniques for a solid six hours – but the guys put on a blistering display of virtuoso waffle.
I tried to keep up the girlie side – I really did – but even as I felt my Duracell-like vocal chords wilt in exhaustion, I could hear the boys enthusiastically debating the merits of IBM versus Compaq laptops. Long after Keren and I had lapsed into silence they were still blethering on about performance cars. It was a fair contest, and we were frankly outmatched.
Andrew: “The new Lamborghini Diablo might look alright, but the clutch is very heavy, it’d practically break your ankle. And it doesn’t corner very well-“
Me: “What, you’ve driven it?”
Andrew: “Ah no, I read a review.”
I was designated chauffeur on the drive home. I’m not that familiar with the route, and Andrew likes to issue directions in a staccato burst: “LeftleftleftLEFTLEFT!”, usually as I’m thundering past the relevant slip road at warp speed.
One day I’ll execute a handbrake turn at 160kph and see how he likes it