That old weekend thing.

I had a divine weekend. I was a bit tired and shitty at the end of last week, and was looking forward to a rest.

I usually try to sleep in for as long as I possibly can on weekends. It isn't that I don't like mornings - I do - but rather that I sleep so well and it's getting a little more chilly sans quilt in the morning that it's just much nicer to spend time in warm-cocoon-style slumber.

My laundry pile had a mind of its own, so on Saturday morning, after reading Harper's over coffee and yummy breakfast, I did about 47 loads of washing. This always makes me feel better, and I love little more than having my entire wardrobe clean and raedy to have a gorgeouso combination plucked from its depths. Or, shallows, as the case may be.

We have a house guest with us at the moment. Andy is not my brother, and has come for a visit from Nova Scotia (where 75% of the other roomies are from). He loves glorious food, and had heard of Rob Feenie before coming to Vancouver. It was his proposition that some or all of the kids go to Lumière for a special, extravagant dinner. It's one of the fanciest restaurants in town.

I thought to myself that the ladies in the movies always bathe before a special occasion like this, so I put on some nice Indian-droney-chanty music, and ran myself a long, hot bath with extra Radox.

I have a love/hate relationship with baths. Often, I will emerge feeling slightly blanched, a little bit red, and mostly a bit fainty. This night was no different. I put on some candles, and popped my little clock on the loo so I could keep an eye on the cooking time. As I waited for the bath to fill, I found myself contemplating how it might feel to actually contemplate suicide. Baths always seem so poetic in this Fatal-Attractionesque regard. What is it about bathrooms/hot water/razors/steam/mirrors that leads one to associate the scene with dramatic death? I digress.

Eventually, the bath was ready. (It takes ages because the bath is a nice deep claw one, and i'm upstairs with shite water pressure.) I popped one foot in and thought to myself, "I can take that", and in went the rest of me.

I closed my eyes, cleared my mind on and off, and took 4 sets of 5 minutes in which to focus on relaxing. That seemed to work. I was pretty relaxed. So relaxed in fact that when I stood up I was overcome by the now-familiar dizziness I sometime feel before I am about to faint. I sat down on the rim of the tub and tried to breathe and relax. I realised I had fainted when I found myself crumpled up on the floor. I noticed a broken glass in the sink which I didn't hear smashing, so I knew I must have been out for a moment.

It took me about 10 mintues to collect myself. There's really not much I can do after fainting. I just have to sit very still and relax.

I toyed with the idea of going to bed, but I knew that the Lumière plan was coming up fast. So, I pulled myself slowly together, drying the tips of my wet hair, popping on some nice clothes and a bit of lippy.

Accompanied by Shannon and Andy, I ventured out gingerly into the Vancouver night, bundled up, and feeling fragile, but safe.

Then we went to Lumière, and everything about it was Fucking Sensational. The food was exquisite, the accompanying 'flight of wines' were all sublime, and provided uncannily perfect foils to the gorgeous seafood that came to our table. The service was lovely, personal, polite, well-timed and informed. A lovely, special experience.

After dinner, we went to a pub to see a band, but after having a glass of water, I realised how exhausted I was feeling (after the high of such loveliness) and left the other two to party on down. I slept very well that night.

Sunday was fun too. Rested, I awoke to an offer of a day trip to Whistler, about 2 hours away. So, we did that.

I think I just wanted to write about fainting. I'm fine now, it's happened before, and even though it's pretty unsettling, now that I know when it's coming, it isn't so bad.