Experienced that last day limbo, where you're packed and out of your room and in your going home clothes, but there's still six hours until the car comes to take you to the airport.
I sat by the pool, finishing off reading the Rasputin book, feeling a bit hot in my jeans. Fittingly Georgia was nearby, repeatedly jumping into the water and splashing me as she did so. It was almost like she knew. I would miss her when I was gone. She seemed to be lightly bullying a couple of younger lads and I wondered if one day in the future I might see her again - either as an entertainer or a psychopathic murderer. Or both.
Nicholas and Alexandra and indeed Rasputin died again as always. Though Rasputin came very close to escaping, but was brought down by two bullets as he neared the gates of Yusupov's palace. I had pretty much always accepted the story that he'd survived the eating of poison and being shot by Yusupov and then had been brought down by Purishkevich as he made one final attempt to escape, but it's pretty clear there was a hefty amount of bullshit in this account (given by the conspirators). Rasputin never ate cakes and it's much more likely he was finally dispatched by Grand Duke Dmitri and the others made light of his involvement so as not to hamper his chances of becoming Tsar. But Rasputin certainly escaped the palace after being shot at point blank range and could possibly have survived this attempt to kill him, just as he had survived being stabbed a year or so before.
Evenso the story goes that he actually died by drowning, but I am not sure I buy that either. He had been shot in the head after all. But witnesses said he had managed to free one hand from the ropes that bound him after he was thrown into the river.
It's an amazing story whatever the truth of it and the ambiguity makes it all the more interesting for a drama. Will this be the play I write this year? I have some ideas of what to do with it, but am concerned it might be a bit lavish and expensive to produce for Edinburgh.
Finally it was time to leave and our cab driver took us on a circuitous route through the centre of the island to avoid heavy traffic in the capital city.
Dark clouds gripped the already spooky mountains and it poured with rain for most of the journey. It made the already bizarre peaks of the island look like the domains of Tolkein-style wizards or angry ancient gods. And at one point the swirling grey clouds made the dormant volcanoes appear to be active and on the point of explosion. Would our plane have to escape the island with the ground crumbling beneath it, like happens over and over again in 2012?
As we winded up through the hills the darkness of the sky was imposing and slightly frightening and the downpour going on around us made us slightly less upset to be leaving. Like the island was trying to make us feel that it was OK to be leaving. Or alternately like the island gods were trying to prevent our departure. It felt like a dangerous drive and we passed one quite impressive accident on the motorway where evidently a car had spun out of control and hit the central reservation. It was facing the wrong way with its bonnet stuck under the crash barrier, with its lights still on, but no driver or passenger inside and no emergency services in attendance or slowing the traffic.
But none of this turned out to e portents of doom. We made the airport in good time and breezed through security. The holiday was surely over, but we spent our last bit of cash on some final Phoenix beers and waited for boarding to commence.
We'd had fun, but in fact we were both ready to come home and get back on with our work.
The plane took off without incident and it the island later blew up in a massive volcanic eruption then we, at least, managed to evade the disaster. I haven't checked the news yet, so I don't know if that happened. It almost certainly did.
So back to reality and the realisation that on Saturday night I shall be gigging in Whitstable. Which is almost as good as Mauritius. Almost identical in fact.
