Here we go
Heated pool?
Oh yes, it's not just Joanie who can wear sunglasses in a swimming pool
What did you expect?
Jumping-in
Being sensible and not at all open to peer pressure, I didn't really want to take part in "jumping-in", mainly because of fear of drowning in the icy water, but also because getting water up your nose doesn't half hurt. However, with a little persuading, and after being called a wet pussy, I decided to take the plunge. Now, a little explanation is required here. When I bought by first swimming costume in nearly 20 years, I did so while remembering that thorny problem of strap-slippage. With this in mind, I got a one-piece that was perhaps a little too small. The terrible results can be seen below.
Shocked and appalled? Bloody traumatised.
Almost cut me in two.
Relaxing holidays spell disaster for creativity
So a week in Norfolkland did confirm a few things. Firstly, I miss my friends a lot. Secondly, Norfolk is a nice part of the world, although it's a shit to get to. Thirdly, there does indeed seem to be a fair deal of inbreeding amongst certain sections of the population - this was confirmed by a trip to B&Q where I witnessed a man (husband-dad-brother-cousin) pushing a woman (his wife-sister-cousin-daughter-mother) in a wheelchair, accompanied by their offspring (who resembled scrawny hobbits).
With my vitriolic creativity being ebbed away by a week of relaxation, jumping-in and eating too much, this demob-happy Cakesniffer hasn't really got anything to go on the attack about just at the moment. Except of course... SPIDERS!
It's now officially spider season and I cannot stand the bastards. I can just about cope with garden spiders that have a useful purpose, but I have absolutely no time whatsoever for those big fuckers that scuttle about the house at five hundred miles an hour. They don't even make webs to catch flies. They just lurk and then jump out and then run REALLY fast across the floor. BASTARDS!
It's now dark in the morning when I get up (bah!) and as I stumbled from my bedroom to the bathroom, I saw a huge black spider jump from the bannister on the stair below, where it waited and plotted to trip me up. Fucking twat of a creature.
Rome if you want to...
Of course, this week sees me jet off to my doom on my Roman Holiday. Fuck, I'm scared shitless and absolutely dreading it. I keep telling myself that I'll be OK once I've got to my hotel, dumped my case in my room and collapsed on the bed.
There are so many things that can go wrong (not including catastrophic air disasters). What if they've given us a double bed and not two singles? I can't sleep with my sister for FOUR nights. Fuck's sake.
What if the hotel is completely shite? What if we get robbed? What if it's just too bloody hot to do anything?
I've long held the view that holidays are a waste of money. It's just too much stress, too much expense and hassle for something where you have to come back down to earth (and back to a completely shit job that you hate) with huge bump.
Unless you can afford to do it properly, by staying in really good 5 star hotels, flying direct with good airlines, then it all becomes a cause for anxiety and panic. And there's the cost. Not only is there the price of the flight and accommodation (£350), there's spending money, money for taxis, money for pressies, money for getting stranded in Zurich or Basel on the way there/back. And you just exchange £150 into funny money as if it doesn't mean anything - just for starters. That's a month's worth of petrol, or the cost of a PC upgrade, a nice suit, a really good meal out, a car service.
Material things hit my buttons, not travelling and experiencing culture, history, different people. Once you reach your mid-thirties, you come to realise that people are generally complete cocks no matter where you go, experiences fade into memories as soon as you've lived them. I guess the secret is making sure that you have fabulously large sunglasses and a means of capturing events.
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