Thursday, our last full day at Noosa, began just how we like it — hearty breakfast > 8km walk > smoothie on Main Beach. I mean, if it ain’t broke, et cetera. I had the Nutty Professor, for the record, and my wife the Bananarama.
Stepping out of her comfort zone, Mrs K had her nails done while I retired to the pool and finished off some Heads of Noosa lagers whilst reading the third in Brian McClellan’s excellent ‘Powder Mage Trilogy’.
No idiots in the pool today, so it was very relaxing.
One very classy European-looking couple with kids, a nerdy Asian guy on his own, old people I couldn’t tell apart because they all have short hair and boobs, and a plastic-surgery victim coated in oil who was almost audibly sizzling in the full sun.
She had long since passed medium-rare and was going for well-done. Reminded me of a rasher of bacon I had this morning.
The wife signalled her return from the shops (“I am done with shopping!” she had declared loudly but unpersuasively the previous evening) with a cute top from Who Invited Her, and an outfit from Seed for the Little Elf.
She also survived the mani-pedi session, so I guess that’s on the agenda from now on!
Even though neither of us were hungry, we lunched at Bistro C and had the Coral Sea Barramundi fillet which was excellent.
I didn’t feel like booze, so I ordered a ginger beer which turned out to be 4% ABV anyway and very refreshing.
Doing our best imitation of elephant seals, we shuffled back to the hotel for a siesta, which for me means lying flat on my back on the bed in my underpants waiting for John Cleese to offer me a wafer-thin mint.
When I didn’t explode, my wife got into her bikini and we hit the beach. The conditions were sublime, and the breeze kept the edge off the heat. I had the camera along and managed to take some nice snaps of shells, kite surfers, and the missus.
Always looking for keepers, I might hang onto this one.
Because we’d eaten like starving hounds at breakfast and lunch, dinner was going to be pâté, cheese and crackers and our remaining half-bottle of saignée on the balcony as the sun goes down, i.e. ‘doing it tough in Noosa’.
Instead, we got a thunderstorm and ditched the camembert in the bin. I even poured the wine down the sink. Tasted like stale piss. Either that, or I don’t like alcohol anymore!!!
Ominous indeed. And yes yes, wasted food, starving children, blah-blah. If there’s any pâté left I’ll express-post it to Kharkiv, promise. But knowing me and pâté there won’t be any left.
Sorry kids!
The rest of our evening was also definitely not for children. Say no more!