Interregnum 1
I remember the first time I came here with my late wife, Jane. I had just sold my second short story and Jane, always the more adventurous with our money, wanted to go on holiday to celebrate. This was a silly idea, we have no money I remember protesting but she wouldn't listen to me. I don't care Harry, you need a break from all this and besides it might help you somewhat. A trip might even inspire you, who knows? I do, I remember saying (but at that time I was being mostly inspired by Mr. Johnnie Walker and helpings of F. Scott Fitzgerald) Jane would have none of it. She was, of course, right and the next month we were packing our car with just enough for a short trip and setting off for Silent Hill. Shit, I remember her saying: I forgot the damned sun cream. Forget it, how expensive can it be? Suppose so, she said pulling out a cigarette, mind if I stick something on. Sure, I said, anything so long as it isn't that Eric Clapton bloke. No no, Pink Floyd. After a few days we arrived in town, and we found our hotel easily, one of the smaller hotels on the lakeside and then went out to the downtown area for sun cream. I remember vainly checking the book store to see if it the magazine with me in it and it did. I'm not proud, but I just couldn't resist the temptation. There were a good few people out and about I remember, and Jane and I sat in a cafe drinking coffee at some point watching the crowd of people go past. What's wrong? I asked her, she had been quiet. Harry, she said, I'm. She put her cup down hard, it clanked on the table. She began to cry. What is it? I asked. Harry I'm ... does not matter. Later that night she told me she was baron.