Denmark.
It was a lovely little cabin somewhere in the hills on Juttland (or something) which we drove to. I didn't much mind the car being broken, it meant nice walks to towns and places, and it was delightfully secluded. So I submerged myself in books over the picturesque view, and hardly slept from how lazy the days were. I was up until 1am every night, reading Frank Herbert books (mostly) or drawing or writing or otherwise being engaged. There was no television and no radio and no telephone and no contact with the outside world, and it was all a lovely retreat, if a bit lengthy at two weeks.

However, this was spoiled by the thin walls adjoining my bedroom which meant that I had to hear my father having a loud, heavily-breathed and vocal orgasm.

Every night.

For fourteen nights.



Sometimes more than once.
( Reid got it going on like Donkey Kong, Tue 26 Apr 2005, 20:14, Reply)