(no subject)
In theory, Tabula Rasa was a beautiful place. It was charming, it was peaceful, no less than one long vacation stretching into eternity, ten times better than Venice, the Mediterranean, the English seaside, lacking the lingering fear of responsibilities to return home to. And what could be better for such an island idyll than a quaint aboriginal hut, draped in palm leaves and suited out with hammock and charming, rustic furniture?
But precisely one month later, Leon was beginning to wonder.
First, there was the dreadful heat, worse than any English summer. The air didn't rise sickening from the pavement like it sometimes did in London, but covered you like a damp wool blanket, and stuck to your skin just as badly. His hut - well, it didn't leak, that much could be said for the clever men of the building crew - but water seemed to be able to seep in and dampen everything all the same. He had thought the hammock a stroke of genius when he had found the billow of cloth buried in the bottom of the clothes box, garishly colored, but precisely the right size to string up as a bed. Only now his back ached endlessly. Insects - and worse, he was sure - made nests in the stacked fronds that composed the roof, and buzzed incessantly, day in and day out. Worse than the buzzing, he was almost certain that nature was supposed to be quiet. Weren't ruddy poets always talking of the serenity of the outdoors or some such business? And yet the noise - a never-ending chorus of rustling, eerie screams of birds, croaks and chirps of a thousand unknown creatures - never ceased, not even in the dead of night.
He sat on a stump outside his hut now, trying not to look quite so put out as he felt. With a sharp tug he removed one shoe, dumped out the sand that had surreptitiously collected in it, repeated the process with the other. A brightly colored insect of some sort, nearly as big as his hand, he swore, flew a malicious trajectory towards his face, and he swatted it away.
He blew a stray lock of hair from his face. This wasn't half as fun as it had been made out to be.
But precisely one month later, Leon was beginning to wonder.
First, there was the dreadful heat, worse than any English summer. The air didn't rise sickening from the pavement like it sometimes did in London, but covered you like a damp wool blanket, and stuck to your skin just as badly. His hut - well, it didn't leak, that much could be said for the clever men of the building crew - but water seemed to be able to seep in and dampen everything all the same. He had thought the hammock a stroke of genius when he had found the billow of cloth buried in the bottom of the clothes box, garishly colored, but precisely the right size to string up as a bed. Only now his back ached endlessly. Insects - and worse, he was sure - made nests in the stacked fronds that composed the roof, and buzzed incessantly, day in and day out. Worse than the buzzing, he was almost certain that nature was supposed to be quiet. Weren't ruddy poets always talking of the serenity of the outdoors or some such business? And yet the noise - a never-ending chorus of rustling, eerie screams of birds, croaks and chirps of a thousand unknown creatures - never ceased, not even in the dead of night.
He sat on a stump outside his hut now, trying not to look quite so put out as he felt. With a sharp tug he removed one shoe, dumped out the sand that had surreptitiously collected in it, repeated the process with the other. A brightly colored insect of some sort, nearly as big as his hand, he swore, flew a malicious trajectory towards his face, and he swatted it away.
He blew a stray lock of hair from his face. This wasn't half as fun as it had been made out to be.