Murk

This afternoon we walked along the esplanade towards Seacliff. It was warm and a little bit windy. The sky was blue and puffy. The sea, sapphire and amber, the sand dunes bejewelled with silken strings of portulaca, gazania and wild yellow oxalis. I'm telling you this so you will understand how pretty it was and how unlike Murk.

Last night we watched a Danish movie on SBS. It was called Murk. In Danish it was called Morke, with a line through the o. That may or may not be pronounced Murk, I don't know. Let us say that it is.

The movie was about Jacob whose brain damaged sister had died on the eve of her wedding to Anker, a weird guy from Murk, who she'd met on the internet. Jacob suspected that Anker had murdered his sister.

He drove to Murk, along a wet grey country road. Murk had an air of foreboding. Anker was fat and had the sort of haircut that made you think he was capable of murdering your sister.

We never found out if he had. But that isn't relevant here. What's relevant is that as we were walking along the shining esplanade this afternoon towards Seacliff, the sun went momentarily behind a cloud, six cars drove by in a slow procession and a young man shouted from the back of the second car, which was a black car, EEEEEUUUUUHHH!!!

And the esplanade took on an air of forboding, like Murk.