You know the moment, when you say: Oh, I have to take a picture of this!?
Well, what if you can't? Take the photo? Like when you've been traveling for four hours on a journey that was scheduled for one hour in a foreign land, in the remote countryside at dusk, and you're hungry, tired and lost because the GPS directed you to go the way the crow flies and not the way the smart one drives?
Picture that. Throw in a grouchy husband whose back has gone out while schlepping boxes of magazines and manning a booth for four days amid 40,000 quilters. Throw it in for good measure or simply for my reality.
As we drove, I shriek, "Oh! I have to get a picture of that!"
All it took was one look. The camera was packed in the back of the jeep. There was no way in this lifetime, that this tired, hungry, broken lost man was going to pull over and dig out a camera for a mere laugh.
One look. Some marriages take decades for telepathy. Not ours.
The nonexistent picture? In North Wales, in the middle of don't-ask-us-where is a house on a roundabout. Seriously, a house on a roundabout in thoroughfare traffic, a real roundabout with four exits. Five if you count the driveway leading to the house. The family in the house refused to move. So said the locals, when we finally stopped to ask for directions.