"They ask me to tell you... sir... that there is no golf today because of the rain," the guard tells me at the entrance to the golf club at the ungodly hour of 6:30am.
(I was wearing my baseball cap on my head, and half of an egg yolk on my cheek, which I'm thinking explains the 'sir'. Or at least I'm hoping it does. Historically, egg yolks have been implicated in many a gender confusion, correct?)
I look at the sky. There is not a drop of water coming down.
"Because of the heavy rain?" I chuckle, expecting the guard to let me through, but he just looks at me somberly.
"Yes. Because of the heavy rain," he nods.
He refuses to lift the boom, and I'm forced to make a less than graceful retreat (instead of putting the car in reverse I manage to put it into 5th gear, but no actual harm is done), and the Finns retire upstairs to their respective bedrooms.
For me, there are always dirty underwear to be laundered and plates and coffee cups to be washed. And nothing says enjoying your visitors like sorting through piles of laundry and being surprised by a dirty pair of underwear that someone was clearly wearing while sitting 19 hours on different planes and then into the next day because their luggage failed to leave Europe when they did.
Except maybe the joy of such statements from the hobo-ish brother as: "Are you sure I shouldn't drive? I'm really afraid now, and you hit all of the traffic cones back where there was road construction. I saw them roll away in the mirror."
I barely touched the cones. Or the underwear.
Indian Ocean, meet the Atlantic. Atlantic, meet the Indian Ocean.