She likes to go caving.
That's right. She's a dyke who likes to explore dark, damp holes.
I'm sorry, I couldn't resist. That was gross.
But basically what it is. Perhaps I don't quite understand the concept of this caving malarky, but here is my interpretation of this activity (yes, activity - some cavers seem to believe it is a sport...).
Every few months T and her friends drive a long way to a freezing cold shabby little hut in the middle of nowhere. After spending the night in a dingy room of bunkbeds, they all prance off to the nearest hole in the ground and head down into the arse-end of the earth.
Once there, they spend hours crawling around in what is essentially a cold, pitch-black hole in rock, sometimes maneuvering around the occasional deadly, vast precipice. Sounds wild right?
I'm sure in reality it's all very fun and uber pretty, like this:
However in my head, I like to think it's more like this:
And so this is why T has gone away for the weekend.
Leaving me here, alone, imagining her in fatal situations equating to 127 hours. That's right, that story where the guy gets trapped between some rocks and has to cut off his own arm.
So this is the kind of thing I imagine when she's away. Her getting trapped and having to gnaw off her own limbs (that's right, my thoughts have progressed to biting off arms), falling down holes and being attacked by cave ghouls (yup they exist), or maybe just something a bit more realistic like breaking a limb or two. Jeez that would suck. Who'd run around after me making me cups of tea? *sighs*
In retrospect, this is a strange and rambly blogpost. But enjoy the insight into my ridiculous lonely mind.