I've just driven from Bigbury-on-Sea to Kingsbridge through a cloud, in the dark, through single-track country lanes in the searing rain. As I flicked my lights from dipped to main beam, and the ghostly hedges raced past, I aimed the car at the dark and shot through the torrent, hoping beyond hope that I had read the road well.
"You know the sharp bend to the right," he said, peering out of his open window.
"Er, not really," I said, "I'm not from round here."
"Well," he went on in his Devonshire accent, "iss flooded." The rain pounded in and spat on my face as the stranger leaned out of his car. "... and again, jus' before the narrows... completely flooded it is, an you won' see it in the dark so jus go easy..."
"Cheers mate," I said soundingly uncharacteristically Cockneyish. As it was, the passing Devonian was quite right. At the sharp bend a diluvian flood had submerged the road and I had to rev up to hurtle through it. I wondered at that point, whether I'd get back to Kingsbridge at all. The deep water fountained up either side of the car and was briefly illuminated by the headlamps. I loosened my grip on the steering wheel and tested the brakes.
Funnily enough, I still wouldn't change this for a package holiday to 'the sun'. I've never really understood why people go to the trouble of flying hundreds of miles in a tin can, essentially to spend a fortnight reading a book. A book, which I might add, they have taken with them.
I like holidays to be adventures. Where you feel like you could do anything today - see dinosaur fossils, dig a hole so deep you can bury your dad, run like Cheetarah along a flat sandy beach, or climb the highest cliff or the tallest mountain, just because it'd be fun to see the world from the top. I like stuff to do: walks to ramble through and games of chess, draughts, pit or rummy and end the day with a steaming cup of well-earned hot-chocolate.
What, you might ask, did I do today then?
Well, I have to admit a little sheepishly that I put my feet up and read a book. Alright, alright. It wasn't the only thing I did. Actually, I did walk along the cliff tops and I did manage to have a little prayer time with the waves crashing beneath me. And I did play some Playstation with Jospeh, who is very nearly 3 and trained himself to use the potty. For some reason, he seems to find it easier to refer to me as 'Daddy's Friend', rather than my name - which is certainly not a challenge of pronunciation. Still, it was rather good fun to use the piano to make up thunder, rain and lightning music. His face lit up whenever he got to play the deep rumbling notes.
"Andrew guess how much this was," said Rachel in the doorway. She was holding the instant barbecue fondue set we never used because it had been raining. It was no more than a tray of oversized chocolate buttons, sealed in aluminium and cardboard.
"Twelve pounds?" said Andrew.
"No! That's not the way it works!" said she, crestfallen. "You're supposed to guess lower than that!"
It struck me that the rules of this guessing game aren't as simple as they seem. In fact, they're not simple at all. In some sort of inverted way, the object of the game is to help the person feel the rush of self-assertion at purchasing some sort of a bargain, or solidarity in having been ripped-off. And as men, we are required to become experts at working out which it is and sympathising accordingly. As men of course, we are quite quite rubbish at that most of the time. Making an accurate estimate that achieves the goal can often be tricky for items with a variable price. Andrew had gone too high of course. The actual retail price was about £7 which Rachel clearly considered to be a lot. By going higher, Andrew had inadvertently shown that what she considered to be high, was not that high at all, and hence her perception of the bargain she felt she'd achieved (£3) was undermined. Fascinating. I wondered whether women fully understand the risk of games like this. It made me ponder the roles of husband and wife really carefully actually...
... I know, this is crazy. It was only a fleeting thing. What if, though, I thought to myself, this highlights something about the way the marriage relationship works. One person brings a question or suggestion to the two-person team that is a vulnerable one. How do I look? Is it OK if I go off to the pub with the lads? Darling, what would you say to us getting a puppy? To a difference engine, an algorithm or a computer, these are all quite straightforward questions. You look terrible in my opinion, says the android husband. No, it is not OK, you stand a 78% chance of returning drunk. And, "I would say 'yes' because it would delay the decision about having children by approximately 16 months and logically this is advantageous..."
You can see the android husband not lasting very long. I wondered tonight just how much marriage (or maybe even any close relationship) is about learning and adapting to the codes we use; the questions behind the questions. The give-and-take dance that two people slowly learn as they grow together, stepping on each other's toes, out-of-time with the music, frustrating and loving and living and learning. I had a little smile to myself, as I realised how complicated I seem to make things for just myself. It'll be a lot of fun one day, learning to dance.
Then I realised that without the music, without understanding the rhythm, and without really flowing in time with the person God gave you, it'd be pretty difficult to do it well, if it all. So, how do people cope without God binding it all together? It's a great mystery.
Maybe one day I'll find out whether I'm right. If I can drive out of the county without getting swept away in the deluge.
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