Ahh... Barbados

Later that same afternoon I was sitting in a hammock sipping rum much as I had that morning. And all the previous. With similar plans for the rest of the week. The breeze was soft, the sky bright and water lapping slowly on the beach clear and warm. As least I thought it warm - I had yet to remove myself from the hammock to try it out.

I poured more rum and thought of Papa Hemingway writing -

"I was writing about up in Michigan and since it was a wild, cold, blowing day it was that sort of day in the story. I had already seen the end of fall come through boyhood, youth and young manhood, and in one place you could write about it better than in another. That was called transplanting yourself, I thought, and it could be as necessary with people as with other sorts of growing things. But in the story the boys were drinking and this made me thirsty and I ordered a rum St. James. This tasted wonderful on the cold day and I kept on writing, feeling very well and feeling the good Martinique rum warm me all through my body and my spirit." (Hemingway's "Moveable Feast")

I then thought of how nice it was here, not in the office. And thought of having another drink and of what to do next week.

All thoughts were answered quickly and easily. And liquidly.

Cheers.