Where the Road Bends

Chapter 3

The Cornish sun peeked through the curtains, casting a playful wink at the inhabitants of the cottage. Inside, however, a different kind of light show was taking place – the telltale glow of late-risers emerging from a slumber fueled by laughter and a healthy dose of vino. By noon, the three friends found themselves sprawled on various cushions and armchairs in the living room, a tableau vivant of post-revelry leisure.

"Alright team," Danny announced, his voice thick with mock seriousness, "let's strategize. How exactly does one achieve peak productivity during a Cornish weekend?" A glint of amusement flickered in his green eyes.

Julia, perched on the armrest of the sofa, her hair a delightful mess that rivaled a bird's nest after a particularly vigorous storm, snorted with laughter. "Well, Danny," she drawled, her voice laced with a hint of mischief, "traditionally, a significant portion of said productivity involves the strategic consumption of copious amounts of wine, to help us plan."

William, nestled on the couch with a groan that could rival a wounded walrus, peeked at them over the back of his hand. "And perhaps," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, "a valiant attempt to reach the beach for purely aesthetic purposes, of course." (So in other words a change of scenery for their wine drinking).

They all chuckled, the sound rich with the comfortable familiarity of old friends. The truth was, their Cornish weekends had become a delightful, if slightly predictable, ritual. It was a whirlwind of wine-fueled laughter, lighthearted teasing, and a comforting routine that bordered on the absurd.

There were always the same elements: a tentative stroll to the beach (usually fueled by the promise of a post-beach beverage, naturally), a lively evening at the local pub (where William's attempts at introducing them to new female companions were mercilessly thwarted by Julia and Danny's playful jibes), and lazy mornings that stretched well into the afternoon.

This predictable pattern, far from dull, had become a cherished tradition.

After some banter and a hangover fix the day had all but passed. The remnants of their hangover-busting brunch had been cleared away, replaced by a comfortable silence that spoke of full bellies and slightly fuzzy heads.

William, perched on the edge of the sofa, wore a grin that could only be described as suspiciously villainous. Danny, catching on to his friend's mischievous glint, struggled to stifle a snort of laughter.

Across from them, Julia, hair now tamed into a semblance of order, lounged on an armchair, completely oblivious to the plot brewing against her.

Suddenly, William sprang into action, a triumphant cackle escaping his lips. He brandished a peculiar object – a faded, knitted beanie that bore an uncanny resemblance to a duck. Danny, quick on his feet, lunged at Julia, pinning her flailing arms momentarily. It was all William needed.

With a flourish, he plopped the dubious headwear onto Julia's head, the yellow beak perched precariously over her forehead.

"And tonight," William declared, his voice thick with mock seriousness, "we have the... Unlucky Duck!"

Julia's eyes widened in recognition. The 'Unlucky Duck' – a well-worn beanie and a long-standing inside joke. The unfortunate soul bestowed with this dubious honor was tasked with the unenviable responsibility of ensuring the night's festivities remained, well, festive. No lost phones, no misplaced wallets, and absolutely no spontaneous bar brawls with random strangers (a surprisingly common occurrence on their Cornish pub crawls).

Julia, now donning the ridiculous cap, sighed in mock resignation. "Alright, but I refuse to sport this atrocious hat," she retorted, her wit as sharp as ever.

In the quaint tapestry of their Cornish nights, William found a particular delight when Julia was anointed the 'unlucky duck'. Unlike Danny, who, with no malice aforethought, would likely abandon Will in a storm drain, only to be found himself in a state of undignified repose—perhaps sprawled across a pub car park or adorning Eric Smith's boat in naught but his birthday suit.

Julia, however, was the night's unsung hero, the caretaker par excellence. She was their steadfast lighthouse, guiding the boys back from the rocky shores of their revelry, ensuring they arrived home with their dignity and attire largely intact. William, in his own turn, would 'accidentally' shed his clothes upon their return home, claiming the heat unbearable. In truth, it was a ploy to catch a glimpse of Julia's flushed cheeks as she scrambled to find a makeshift cover—a towel, blanket, or pillow—to preserve his modesty before shepherding him to bed.

Thus, with the 'unlucky duck' at the helm, they embarked on another evening's adventure, a merry-go-round of jests and japes, where the only casualty was their restraint, and the only certainty was laughter.