Sun, sea, sand and assault by sequined fat men. Plus pooping of pantaloons on flight home.

Just returned from two weeks of (slightly overcast and not altogether warm) sun and fun in the land of the pide bread. Was delightful. We had only one domestic (involving mojitos and tanning cream) and one dark evening where I was insulted by fat men in sequins. Apart from that, it all went swimmingly.

We arrived at our (very swanky) resort on Monday evening. Our room was roughly the size of a football stadium and equipped with a main bedroom, sitting area, bathroom and dressing area. Unfortunately the dressing area featured a full length mirror and lighting akin to that you find in the dressing rooms of Target. I had spent several months fine tuning my bod before departure only to have my self esteem unravel in approx 20 seconds when I glimpsed myself in said hideous lighting (in the nude) before launching myself at the cupboard and hiding the horror in my complimentary robe. Why - oh why - would one decide to have 'down lighting' in an area where one oft appears in the raw?? It makes no sense. Evidently a male made this decision as no woman would think that light which accentuates every lump, wrinkle and crinkle would be an ace fit for a dressing area.

When dawn broke and we noted that the view from our balcony was almost as grim as the view in the dressing area, we elected to change rooms. We did not come on holidays to admire the back of other buildings! We came to see the sea (so to speak). Some cash changed hands, our bags were moved and we were inserted in a delightful new room with a fantastic view and no hideous dressing area. Bravo!

Le Pond was determined to come back from hols the colour of burnt toffee, so we carted ourselves off to the beach at the crack of dawn the following day. Unfortunately, the best weather was on days one and two! It wasn't RAINY, but was quite breezy and the breeze was icy. If you had a spot without wind it was glorious but I spent more than one day with a towel under me and another on top (I was v close to nana status - all I needed was my knitting on a stable table and I was there).

Food was amazing and we did eat more than usual but Pondy swam every day and I took myself off to the gym and caned myself on a regular basis. Lovely gym and I often had it to myself. Occasionally shared with Germans in very short shorts, but am wife to Pondy so used to large amounts of leg on display. We were not completely well behaved and did have a couple of boozy nights. We went to bingo one night and I won a (not v fetching) picture frame and endeared myself to all the Turkish waiters with a cartwheel of victory. We also went to a show called 'Dream Girls' which was basically fat English men in drag miming badly to show tunes and taking the mick out of the audience. I was seated in the front row and was picked on mercilessly. Vicious bloody things they were too. Still, I was sloshed to the gills on cocktails and didn't mind too much.

We went to the main town of Bodrum several times. Lots of sightseeing (castles, ruins, relics). Not a lot of shopping as every shop sold the same things (I shit thee not - if you wanted a mock Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirt, fake rolex or imitation Prada bag, then bully for you. If you wanted anything else you were flat out of luck). Also there were no prices on anything so they were free to charge you what they wished, and then you had to haggle to get them down to a reasonable price. I loathe the haggle. I like to know a price and pay that price. I don't have the time, patience, or fortitude to haggle. Especially when I know I am earning more in a week than they earn in a month. It makes me feel kind of sick. Luckily, Pondy shares none of these concerns and managed to wangle himself a couple of bargains. All in all, we had a dandy old time and were v sad when the time came to return to chilly old Cornwall....and the hideousness that was our return flight.

We didn't take off until 10:55pm Monday. As we had to check out at midday, Pondy and I spend the whole (rainy) day mooching about the resort - reading, snoozing, playing pool etc. We were both exhausted by departure time. I was also feeling really freaky - kind of dizzy and spacy. Think I was just tired but it felt like I was walking around with moon boots on. We finally boarded and were seated in front of a couple of complete knobs and their spawn for the trip. Male knob was as thick as a brick. He spent the whole flight LOUDLY sharing his theories on everything from aliens ('has to be sumfin' else out there babe') to the minds of air attendants ('they're just waiters luv - they expect to be called on. Gemme a rum and coke will ya?') whilst his child kicked the back of my chair repeatedly. Mum was too busy complaining about needing a fag to address this issue to my satisfaction and I ended up cracking about thirty mins into the journey and giving the child Kath look number 4 (mild irritation with threat of spilt blood). Kicking stopped soon after.

Pondy was snoozing when I first noticed lightning. It was initially several miles in the distance, but didn't take long before it was RIGHT OUTSIDE MY WINDOW and we were shaking about like jelly in a dish. They started serving our food, but stopped at our row (we were 6 from the front) then the captain said they'd be postponing drink service due to the turbulence. We were rattling about like crazy. Then, I spotted one of the hosties RUNNING from the back of the plane to the front where he chatted (very seriously and with much animation) to the two gals up there. They burst into the cockpit, more worried running around then followed complete with actions which looked a lot like 'battening down the hatches'. Drinks and duty free items were stowed away, meals snatched from our hands, requests to stow trays and restore seats to upright. The whole time - and this is what really threw me - they all looked PETRIFIED. That was the scariest thing. They didn't look at all calm or reassuring. They looked bloody scared.

People started whispering and looking around them - 'something's happening', 'something's wrong' and I seriously thought - well, this is it. I'm gonna cark it. I closed my eyes, ignored Pondy (still eating - obviously deciding to die on a full stomach), resisted the urge to suck my thumb and waited. The plane started descending. I started to poop my pantaloons. Pondy abandoned his sausages and started to worry with me. A woman up the front demanded a double brandy. We were minutes from the ground when they finally told us that someone at the back of the plane had suffered a serious epileptic fit (perhaps due to lightning) and we were landing for her. While I felt exceptionally bad for the poor lady who was ill, I was also really pissed off with how it was handled. Why didn't they tell us this when we first started descending? Why didn't they behave professionally and not run about like frightened school children? It was really grim. So, as a result we were late into Bristol and didn't get home til 7am Tuesday (Pondy driving whilst I watched him like a hawk lest he fell asleep at the wheel).

Have now been back for a week and the holiday now seems like a distant memory. Sigh.... Italy next year (hurrah!)

Primark, tough teens and wild eyed nanna's.

Shopping can be hell.

On a business trip to London recently my colleague and I decided, on a free afternoon, to pop off to Primark on Oxford street. She wanted to pick up some cheap vest tops and stocking fillers (yes – already!) and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

Well. Let’s just say I’d rather eat bark than ever set foot in Primark again.

For those of you who have never had the pleasure - it basically is a big shop full of cheap crap (that looks cheap, feels cheap, probably dissolves on its first wash) piled up in every square inch of available space where it is pawed over by wild eyed shoppers – in a near frenzy at the thought of a £2 t shirt. The queue to the dressing rooms is roughly three miles long, but the intrepid Primark shopper cares not for queuing – it cuts into bargain time! They simply whip off their keds in the middle of the store and get changed in public. A few of the more modest Primark shoppers gather a gaggle of friends or relatives around them while they strip (a type of human shield) but some just GO FOR IT. It’s quite disconcerting spotting brassieres and underoos in the public domain. It’s not a flipping beach for Christ sakes.

Of course, being in the raw in a busy shop is frowned upon and, to be fair, the security guards were doing their best to keep everyone clothed. But the shoppers are out of control. Not only did I witness many barely contained bosoms and bums, but I was also in fear of losing my life. I was bashed out of the way by pregnant women, bowled over by sweet looking school girls. Knocked into next week by nana’s on a search for bed linen. I couldn’t bear it. Everyone’s feverish excitement started to affect me - I felt that I must be missing out on a bargain and if I didn’t get shopping quick smart I’d regret it forever. I grabbed a shopping basket and headed into the melee where I proceeded to pick up things I didn’t need, want, or even particularly LIKE simply cos they were so cheap. Will I ever wear a pale pink sequined snood? I think not. What about a pair of bright orange underoos that I’m not entirely sure will even fit me (the sizing structure is 8 - 10, followed by 12 - 14. I am a 10 - 12. Do I go for potentially baggy undies, or for ones that may cut off the flow of blood to my nether regions?). I also grabbed a pair of pyjamas for £5, a roll of wrapping paper, a pack of face wipes and a lip gloss. Then I wigged out completely.

I was trying to make my way to the tills when a dirty little tart with a face like a smashed crab knocked me flying into a rail of (£2!) hats. ‘Excuse me!’ I said, in my best mum voice. ‘Can you please watch where you’re going?’.

‘Watch yourself woman’ she replied. Watch yourself woman? For the love of God. I tried desperately to think of a witty come back, but my brain was too addled by the proceedings of the previous 30 mins. ‘You watch yourself, little girl’ I snarled. She turned towards her equally attractive mates – no doubt looking for back up. This was too much. I was about to get punched out (or maybe stabbed – we were close to the homeware section with the (£4!) knives) by a teenager in Primark. As she grabbed her mates and stomped back towards me I flung my basket on the floor and fled – passing two half naked nana’s on the way out.
I shan’t go back again.

My muffin top has become a baker's dozen

Went to the beach on the weekend.

Good God.

The last time I wore a swimsuit for any extended period of time was in Crete with the Pond family. We were there for two weeks and I was bikini-clad every day. I walked around in my bikini. I swam in my bikini. I even jogged in it once (to the toilet – was v close to wetting self and refused to just ‘pee in the sea’). I was happy in my bikini. More importantly, I was comfortable. Not so comfortable that I would do any major strolls without a sarong at the ready, and certainly not so comfortable as to wobble my way through a game of beach volleyball, but I felt respectable. Healthy. Reasonably toned.

This weekend I grabbed my favourite bikini which had not seen an outing since Crete and attempted to shoehorn myself into it.

Top half was ok – needed a bit of a jiggle and a wiggle to secure the gals in place, but, once they were trapped, I looked perfectly presentable from the belly button up.

Then came the bikini bottoms.

They are hipster bottoms and they have always been a tad snug, even in Crete . I remember on that very holiday pinching a teeny tiny bit of skin at hip level and complaining about my muffin top.

Well. If THAT was a muffin, I now am the proud owner of a baker’s dozen. There was a distinct ROLL over the top of my bottoms. It need not be pinched – I could actually GRAB a large chunk of myself. (And so could Simon, as he happily demonstrated – helping himself to a hearty handful whilst I was assisting our niece in the digging of a – very impressive - hole. He ended up with a shovel up the side of his head).

This is my own fault. I have spent the summer (grim though it was) in a giddy haze of dinners, bbq’s and carousing. Well, NO MORE! The realisation that my Turkish holiday is only 32 sleeps away has me apoplectic with fear. When I imagine the holiday in my head, I always look fabulous. I picture myself in my new denim skirt (pre-summer purchase - good God, will it still fit me??) and bikini top, looking trim and terrific. If I don’t curb my love affair with cider and cheese pronto, I may well be waddling along the Turkish beaches swathed in a kaftan with my new skirt working outside its remit as, perhaps, a hat.

So I’ve decided I’m not drinking in September. Nor am I indulging in any crap. I’m going to be as pure as the driven snow (not snow that has actually been driven ON, as this tends to be quite disgusting. As pure as the stuff that actually is falling from the sky). I have only 32 days to fit back into my bikini bottoms. I’m too terrified to try my skirt on again.

I have several social engagements this month that I will now be attending sober. Come along and enjoy the ride!

* Join me as I say no to free glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.
* Laugh as I ask for ‘orange juice please’ at the wine bar.
* Delight in my discomfort as I socialise with acquaintances while sipping on a soda water.
* Gag as I eat an egg white omelette for breakfast!

I will keep you in the loop. Perhaps I should post a picture of my baker’s dozen on here? Do I dare????

Stay tuned...

I am a Cow Watcher

Good God I’m knackered. Seven days of non stop sightseeing and carousing with my visiting Aussie buddy has left me as squinty eyed and dehydrated as a smoked mackerel.

Unfortunately, she has now left Cornwall ’s fair shores. Sob. But we (Simonski and I) certainly gave her a good hard flogging while she was here.

We took her to beaches (where we paddled in water so cold that we lost all feeling in our toes), the mountains (where I realised I am not afraid of heights, I am only afraid of cliffs), the fields (where I encountered* my favourite kind of cow – the delightfully fluffy ‘Banded Galloway’) the pubs (so many pubs…).

So all in all, an action packed week.

My favourite part was a visit to the local Legion’s club where we were served cheap drinks in delightful company, sang karaoke (Burning Ring of Fire) and did Irish dancing and cartwheels in the streets til the early hours. I blame mead.

* ‘encountered’ makes it sound like we just happened upon them. In fact I dragged us to Zennor and searched every field in the manner of a crazed cow spotter (if train spotters are called ‘twitchers’ does this make me a moo-er?)

Is it wrong to dangle bits of yourself into an occupied cubicle?

Today I was in a cubicle in the toilets at work when someone entered the toilets, took up position in the cubicle next to moi, then settled in with her foot IN MY CUBICLE. Why??? It was a rather large foot with toe nails in need of attention, clad in a comfortable black sandal. What was it doing in MY cubicle? There is obviously sufficient room in a toilet stall for you to keep your appendages contained. It was almost resting between my ankles.

I found this v disconcerting. I also became extremely interested in the footwear of everyone within my company but have not spotted the same shoe yet. I have concluded it must have been an outsider.

My boobs have been flapping around like a spaniel's ears for three weeks...

Good God. I have just realised that my boobs have been flapping around like a spaniel’s ears for the last three weeks without my knowledge.

How did this happen, I hear you ask?

As the weather has been warm (by UK standards), I had taken to wearing a singlet to my circuit classes. It is one of those singlets with a built in bra top, so I felt it was safe for circuits. I wore it secure in the knowledge that my modesty would be preserved as I squatted, star jumped, and generally bounced about.

I was so, so wrong.

My house has no full length mirrors. If I want to see what an outfit looks like, I have to stand in front of our glass shower screen. However, I have never ‘bounced’ in front of the shower screen – I have not felt the need to. And I certainly have not bounced in front of the shower screen in my workout gear.

This is a mistake I will not make again.

For after THREE weeks, THREE weeks of star jumps, tuck jumps, skipping and other boob bouncing behaviours, I - whilst strutting through Falmouth on a power walk this afternoon – caught sight of myself in a shop window and gasped. Suddenly, the ogling I’d received from some elderly men on a pub crawl made perfect sense. I was boinging about like nobody’s business.

Evidently my ‘inbuilt bra’ was not built for boobs on the move. It was a wonder no one arrested me on my 45 min stroll for indecent behaviour.

I immediately put my coat back on and, arms crossed, strolled very carefully home where I confronted Simon.

Our conversation ran thus:

K: For the love of God – why did you not tell me how much my boobs bounced around in this top?

S: I thought you knew

K: How could I possibly know? We don’t have a full length mirror. There aren’t any mirrors at circuits. They’ve been flying around, barely contained, for three weeks now! Why didn’t you say something….Oh God… I’ve been doing STAR JUMPS like this! And SKIPPING!!!

S: I like it.

K: Well I don’t! Those poor men in our circuit class. They mustn’t have known where to look. I’m bopping, I’m bouncing. Good God Simon! I’m your WIFE.

S: I know. I like it.

Etcetera. Honestly, what hope do I have?

Does buying shoes from Clark's signal the slippery slide into old age?

Recently I purchased my first pair of Clark’s shoes.

I believe I am now officially elderly.

Buying one’s first pair of Clark’s is a right of passage – like getting your first bra or passing your driving test.

I feel it is a symbol of the decline that began several months ago when I started wearing tracksuit pants outside the house and began purchasing items based not on look, but on feel (ooh my God – is that a stretch jersey?? So soft!). It is one more sign of my descent down the slippery slope of old age.

Once upon a time, I didn’t give a crap how clothes felt. I lived in a world of man made fibres – the tighter the better. My knickers were all g strings and my heels were all towering. What has happened? When did I turn from foxy, man made fibre clad minx into a full brief wearing, cotton sporting, Clark’s shoe wearing, comfy lovin’, non minx?

I can not believe that I have taken to wearing flats in an office environment. They may be groovy Clarks shoes (red patent mary jane’s, if you don’t mind) but they are Clark’s nonetheless.

I used to wear nothing but heels – the higher the better. I have a lovely collection of heels at home that sit silently and weep when I grab my Clark’s of a morning. ‘Why?’ I hear my two tone t-barred Dune heels cry, ‘Why have you forsaken us?’ My nude bustle ruffled shoes from the Office sniffle softly beside them. Then, suddenly - my red patent, white stitched Kurt Geiger heels leaps to my aide: ‘It’s not us – it’s the cobble stones – she can’t do the cobblestones’. My Kurt Geiger heels were with me on my most recent high heeled foray into down town Falmouth which ended with me coming askance on a cobble stoned stretch of pavement and flying past Waterstones before my fall was cushioned by a bag of soft fruit (I shit thee not).

I can’t do the cobblestones! High heels in Cornwall are difficult to master. You must look at your feet the entire time. The streets of Cornwall are elderly. They are not the shiny, easy to negotiate, laid in the 20th century pavements of Brisbane. They are rickety, lumpy old things from the 17 and 1800’s. God knows what chicks used to wear in days of yore, prior to Clark’s.

Plus, my Clark’s are so COMFY. It’s like walking on air. I seriously feel my feet sigh and stretch when I slip them on.

I have high heels under my desk at work in case of meetings. And I will never, ever, go out to dinner or the theatre etc in a pair of flats.* But for daytime, cobble stone negotiating, shopping adventures in Cornwall, I am a Clark’s convert. And I’m only 38.

* once upon a time I swore I would rather die than leave the house in a pair of trasksuit pants, so God knows anything is possible…..

Are all bar attendants crap nowadays?

I love this photo. Pondy looks partially deranged. Plus, the way his glasses are positioned atop his head makes him look like he has an itty bitty head horn.

A small rant: What the hell has happened to bar attendants nowadays? Why does it take so long to get a freaking drink? I used to be a bar attendant, and I was bloody good at it. I served three to four customers simultaneously, was always nice (ie: SMILED) and could - oh wonder of wonders - ADD UP IN MY HEAD!!

Nowadays you wait roughly 200 years for service only to be asked several times during said service to repeat your order. Here is - verbatim, a conversation between yours truly and a young bar man recently:

ME: A pint of Rattler and a vodka and soda please

HIM: A pint of what?

ME: Rattler

HIM: A pint?

ME: (exhaling heavily) YES

HIM: And what else?

ME: A vodka and soda.

HIM: (starts pouring pint): Rattler, yes?

ME: FOR THE LOVE OF F***ING GOD YES!!!!

ME: (my last retort happened in my head. My actual answer was: Yes)

HIM: And a house white?

ME: No - a vodka and soda

HIM: Just soda?

ME: NO - I LIED! I'D LIKE A VODKA AND SODA, WITH SNIPS AND SNAILS AND PUPPY DOG'S TAILS!!!!

ME: (again - that happened in my head)

ME: Yes - just soda.

Stage direction: Bar attendant uses post mix gun to dispense soda in roughly 8 - 10 'bursts' of the gun. Why does he not dispense in a single stream, thus avoiding the 'fizzing up' of said mixer and the inevitable need to re-squirt??? For the love of God, WHY????

HIM: (after 60 seconds of squirting) Eight pounds thirty thanks

ME: It's actually five pounds thirty.

HIM: Oops. Sorry.

What the hell is happening?? Sure, there are a few good bar attendants around, but they are all 30 and upwards. I defy anyone to find a good bar attendant, in all of Cornwall, nay - the WORLD, who is under the age of 30. They don't exist! I believe this may be a universal problem.

Is it wrong to feel chuffed when admired by a tramp?

The other day Mr Pond and moi were strutting our stuff through the streets when, mid shop, we diverted towards a public toilet (he takes me to all the cool places). He was bursting and decided he could strut no more, so started to run ahead of me to reach the loo (he has a v small bladder. In his teenage years his nickname was 'Kid Urinate'... ). I, however, could not run as I was not only wearing heels but holding an 8 pack of toilet rolls under one arm and a frozen pizza under the other. (NB: rolls of loo paper not for use in public loo - was mid shop and forced to hold bulky items while Mr P juggled approx 35 shopping bags).

As I struggled towards the loo a strong smell of whisky and urine assaulted my nostrils. Not so unusual when approaching public conveniences, yet it appeared to be coming at me from the wrong direction. I turned and, as I did, a rakishly attractive tramp sauntered up behind me (it was a saunter / lurch combo if I must be honest) and told me I was STUNNING.

In my youth, I would have dropped my frozen pizza and fled for the safety of the Ladies. But the sun was shining, the tramp was being nice and.. well, quite frankly I don't get all that many compliments nowadays and I am more than happy to accept them from whoever is delivering - metho drinker or not.

Thank you! I said, with a swish of my hair. He walked in front of me for a few metres and pretended to take a photo (nearly tripping over a potplant mid shot). 'Really stunning!' he repeated. At this point I may, or may not, have giggled coquettishly. He stumbled on to his mates on a bench near the loos where I received a cheer (I raised my pizza aloft in recognition) and retreated to the toilets.

When Simon emerged I told him that the tramps had a lot of love for me. He did not seem altogether impressed...

How to feel virtuous with a beef jerky wrapper stuck to your face

Currently house sitting at Tam and Stephen’s while they are holidaying in Egypt . It is apparently 45 degrees in Egypt . It is summer here and we are languishing in temperatures of 17. It doesn’t seem fair.

I have been hot exactly twice since arriving in this land. Once was due to a lack of appropriate socks (I had to wear my thermal socks to a gym class – sweaty feet much?) and the other time was an incident involving a large amount of wine, a subsequent lack of hand / eye coordination and a dodgy thermostat. I woke in a cold sweat after temperatures in my bedroom approached those akin to the surface of the sun.

We have had some glorious days of late, but as it is so hit and miss I have had to cultivate a number of indoor pursuits – so far limited to playing scrabble on my DTS (high score of 437, if you don't mind), procrastinating about learning the cello, and watching films that Simon has already seen but insists I watch (in a type of cinematic solitary confinement). Simon was brought up with bizarre weather conditions. In Brisbane , if it’s sunny in the morning chances are it will still be that way come 5pm. In Cornwall , you can count on nothing. As a result, Simon had a lot of ‘indoor’ days as a young ‘un spent watching every movie ever made. And now he is ‘educating’ me. I have seen more Michael Caine movies, Westerns and fantasy flicks with v bad special effects (Jason and the Argonauts – I’m talking to you) in the last year than in the rest of my life combined.

Stephen and Tam have SKY and this weekend I discovered the delights of Cougar Town . Simon wanted to watch Sons of Anarchy (like Sopranos on motor bikes) but we flipped a coin and I was victorious. Cougar Town is ‘turn your brain off’ brilliant. Those who know me will realise that my behaviour is generally so appalling that I very infrequently take the moral high ground (but oh, how I love it when I can!). This show features women behaving so badly that I can finish off half a bottle of champers while watching (before falling asleep on the couch), wake up with a beef jerky wrapper stuck to my face, and still feel virtuous! I highly recommend.

Breastfeeding family members...

I love a trashy mag. The trashier the better. I like stories of tumours with teeth and tales of fake boobs exploding in Morrisons. However, in my most recent foray into the world of smut, I must confess I nearly ralphed when i read the story of the daughter feeding her dad her breast milk to help his fight against cancer.

I'm a fairly liberal minded gal and I know that human milk is chock full of all kinds of goodies helpful to the immune system and, apparently, quite a few cancer patients have reported better health after supping on milk fresh from the boob. I'm cool with that. In my trashy mag the girl in question had already lost her mother to cancer and was very fearful she'd also lose her dad. So, whilst feeding her new born she'd express a little extra and give it to her pa. So far, a tad icky, but can still stomach.

The problem began when she started getting chaffed norks and realised she couldn't continue to express milk anymore. So after a lot of (no doubt freaky and uncomfortable) conversation, she eventually coerced her dad into taking it direct from the boob. Good God.

Now, as I said, I'm a pretty liberal kinda gal. But turning the page of my magazine to be confronted by a fully grown woman breastfeeding her grey haired father (WHY take a picture?? WHY????) really put me off my tuna sandwich. The whole concept is borderline incestuous and smacks of men in nappies wanting to be punished. Could her nipples really be THAT sore?? I'd suffer through chipmunks gnawing through my nips before I even entertained the idea of a family member suckling on them.

And couldn't he just BUY some boob milk online? Apparently there's a thriving market for the sick (and the just plain sick) on the internet? Can't he drink a stranger's milk? Seems much more hygienic (and way less freaky). When is he fed? How frequently? Does he cry if he misses a feed?

England gets knocked out, man boobs and first aid

Most of England has been well pissed off for the last week after England's embarrassing defeat at the hands (feet?) of Germany. Le Pond and I went to the pub to watch the whole shake down. It was ABSOLUTELY PACKED - chock full of sweaty, drunken men. My thongs kept sticking to the floor and every time I was bumped or knocked I'd go flying forward minus my footwear. Was vile. Couldn't get anywhere near the bar and my view of the big screen was obscured by a guy's v structured and towering hair do.

At 10 mins before half time Pondy and I made our escape. The streets were completely deserted - it was like the beginning of 28 Days Later. Sun was blazing but no one was outdoors. The only noise was screaming or cheering as we passed bars. Within 5 mins we were tucked up on our couch in our underoos eating pringles as the drama unfolded on screen. Bliss.

We are well on the way to booking our Turkish hol. We've found a resort, negotiated the price and I'm calling a travel agent today to make our first payment. Hurrah! I first found the resort a week ago. I loved it, but at £2000 p p for 14 days WELL out of our price range. I found it on another site, tweaked the dates and we're now on our way for just £1100 pp. Pondy's mood has picked up considerably now we have a little trip to look forward to.

This is great as he has been mucho moody of late. He worked a full day on Saturday while I went off to a bbq in Truro (I drove, so didn't drink. A revelation for moi...) and when I got back he'd had a snooze and his mood had picked up. We went to another bbq (for a wedding anniversary), then went to our region's only gay club so we could have a boogie. I met a lovely young gay man with a fine pair of norks. We tripped the light fantastic on the dance floor while Pondy stood in the corner nursing his beer. I was appalled as Pondy normally loves to dance. On the way home he informed me that he was 'Tired to his very core'. I, too, was a little weary but couldn't really compete with 'tired to his very core'.

As we arrived home we noticed a young man passed out on the side of the road. I made sure he was still alive (a gentle nudge from my toe while saying 'Are you all right? I'm a first aider!') while Pondy grabbed him a glass of water. He drank it very suspiciously. Then one of his buddies arrived and they limped down the road together.

This week I'm embarking on my Business Writing Course. Hurrah! It's like a week off as I am doing 'school hours' - from 9:30 - 3:30 with an hour for lunch!

Squats and the World Cup

I am almost delirious with pain from the flogging I gave myself at circuits Monday and Wednesday night. I am experiencing the ‘Second Day Pain’ today which is infinitely worse than First Day Pain. I am waddling like a duck and sitting on the loo is incredibly painful (squats… the muscles in one’s gluteus maximus most affected by squats seem to follow the exact contours of the loo seat). Stomach is also killing me. This is what happens when you miss two weeks of exercise – you fall apart.

The class was v empty Wednesday night due to the football (more on that in a minute), but Pondy and I stayed off the beers so that we could attend. We are so committed. Well, Pondy is. I was seriously rocking the 'stay home and carouse' angle but he was having none of it and dragged me, kicking and screaming, from the couch.

We had another new instructor Wednesday evening. She is normally a humble attendee, but must’ve done some kind of course to elevate herself to the hallowed heights of 'Group Exercise Leader'. She is quite chubby and I was initially worried that she wouldn’t be the best role model but she absolutely caned us. And is incredibly fit. Her push ups were particularly excellent. Pondy has the heads up and apparently she used to be v lardy but has lost heaps of weight with diligent circuit attendance and is well on her way to ultra buff if her form Wednesday night was anything to judge by.

In World Cup News…

England finally pulled their collective fingers out and played a decent football match to commence to the final 16. Thank God. The combined ire of a country full of enraged ‘white van men’ may have been too much to bear. It certainly would have made commuting more fraught than usual.

Australia almost pulled off a fairytale ending with their brilliant victory over Serbia. One can only wonder what might have been had Marco Rodriguez, the blind Mexican referee in our match against Germany, had not sent Cahill off. Alas…

Not a Groovy Kind of Funk

Another glorious day.

Simon informed me yesterday that he is ‘in a funk’. Not a groovy kind of funk. A ‘stuck in a rut’ kind of a funk (the kind of funk you fall into when you realise every day you get up, go to work, go to bed, rinse and repeat). I understand his loss of mojo, as I was in a funk of my own only last week. I solved my funk by launching myself into a variety of hobbies (blog, cello, muay thai). So I have attempted to lure Simon out of his funk with activities – figuring if he is v exhausted by non stop whirlwind of canoeing, bike riding and cliff walking he will not have enough time to indulge in funk. The whirlwind shall begin this weekend – we are taking life by the gonads and giving it a good hard shake.

Pondy is simultaneously delighted and appalled at my new found role of camp leader. I daresay in a few weeks time he will look back on his funk with a degree of sentimentality.

Went to circuit training last night and the 'new girl' was taking the class again. Normally circuits is commandeered by a pretty, short haired very ‘80’s’ inspired gym bunny complete with Madonna-esque head set. Her name is Sonia and she’s the kinda gal that would have worn leg warmers and g-string leotards over the top of bike shorts in the 80’s (like me… sob…). She must be on hols or something, cos a spunky little pocket rocket has been there for the last few weeks and the ratio of men to women in the class has shifted quite dramatically. Sonia has a pretty even mix of ladies and fellas, but pocket rocket is skewed approx 80 – 20 (men – women). She is tiny, has enormous bazookas and wears little tops to show them to best effect. Bully for her, say I! (In my youth this was the exact same combo I used to employ. Even in my dotage it’s one I pull out on occasion). The embarrassing thing is the way that men are reduced to giggling loons in her presence. The power of youth + norks in full bloom. It is also amazing how many men are concerned with ‘getting their form right’. Blokes who normally don’t give a rat’s what the instructor is doing are spellbound as she demonstrates push ups, sit ups and chest presses (they seem particularly concerned with the form of their chest presses…)

Lister saves wildlife and visits Aussie pub

I have been rabidly homesick for the last few days. Ironic, as the weather is finally glorious after months of crap - a thousand types of rain from drizzle to downpour and freezing freaking cold. Today the sun is shining and I have a delicious view out my window of the river (with boats bobbing about in it in v picturesque manner) rolling hills and trees. This is all offset by the sound of a cat fight taking place in the alley behind our house. They are really going at it.

Just went outside and banged a couple of shoes together to break up the fight. One v butch cat tormenting a scrappy little persian. Persian ran at sounds of shoe banging, but butch cat stayed behind for a couple of minutes giving me the eye. The cheek.

This is not the first bit of peace making I've done (with the aid of shoes) in recent times. As our house is set up a little hill we are witness to all manner of goings on in the seagull community (they live on the roof of a house in front of us). At the moment I am keeping an eye on some seagull chicks. They are so cute - like grey fluffy ducklings. There is one on the roof right now (see pic below). They can't fly yet and their numbers have dwindled - there were four or five a few weeks back but I think some crows have been picking them off. Indeed, during my last bit of peacemaking I was drawn outside by the cry of approx 20 seagulls tryiing to scare off some crows flying near their nests. Out I went with my shoes, banging them feverishly to scare off the crows. Neighbours also joined in - there was a lot of yelling and arm flapping and then someone set off a flare! Tres exciting!

The seagulls here are freaking massive. They are nothing like the petite Aussie seagulls. Some are the size of dogs.

Anyway, back to my homesickness. I haven't really had any major bouts of it before. I've had times when I've missed my friends and the weather, but apart from that I've been ok. Have been here two years now, which is my longest period of time away from home. Yesterday I was in quite a funk. I told Simonski (who was working that morning), and he came to the rescue. When he finished work at midday he took me to Newquay to the Aussie pub there so I could watch Aus v Ghana with 'my people'. The Aussie pub is quite dodgy - basically a big, crinkly shed with a couple of kangaroo murals. Still, it was nice to hear other Aussie voices moaning at the ref etc. One bloke even yelled out 'What a bloody moron!' - just like Alf from Home and Away. Warmed my cockles it did.

Sadly, it was a draw and now we are relying on a very complex and unlikely set of circumstances to make the next round. But we played well and I wore my Aussie scarf with pride for the rest of the day.

This is in extreme contrast to my mood of last Saturday when I chucked a huge hissy fit following our crushing 4 nil defeat at the hands of Germany (plus blind referee). I cried at the unfairness of it all, ripped my scarf off and went to bed. This was documented by Simon on the camera, but I don't want to post the series of photos as I am embarrassed by my atrocious attitude. Plus, I am wearing a tracksuit and one of the shots was taken from the rear. To quote Tyler 'If girls knew what they looked like from behind in tracksuits, they'd never wear them'. Too true Ty Ty, too true...

Newquay is a strange town. It's in a very picturesque locale, but is kind of like a mini Surfers Paradise. Loads of souvenir shops, pubs, bars, strip joints etc. It's the location of choice for lots of Northerners on bucks / hens nights and is the place that most of the schoolies flock to after exams. It's gotten a lot of bad press in recent years for underage drinking etc. They also had big problems with blokes peeing in the street (memo: men - the world is not your toilet) and in an effort to combat this they installed urinals that rose - phoenix like - from the ground in the evening. They are called 'pissoirs', or 'urilifts'. I shit thee not. A picture is below.

When blokes needed a wee, they angled their bods inside the pissoir, dropped trou and off they went. Alas, they have removed the pissoirs now so the menfolk are back to peeing in doorways and potplants.