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Cat woman

So if you’re hoping this blog is about a fit female in leather trousers with cute cat ears, a selection of bullwhips and perfectly rounded bosoms, you’re on the wrong blog. That’s gotta be disappointing, but I am sure you can find a specialist website for your needs.

No, this blog is about my Saturday spent with my sister doing local charity work supporting at a monthly cat re-homing show for a brilliantly run cat charity.

How it works. Once a month we go along set up tables and chairs and unload a big van of cat stuff. We build about 15 large flat pack cages and then amazing volunteers who temporarily foster stray cats and kittens between re-homing shows, bring them in and put them in the cages so members of the public can come in and hopefully permanently adopt one, giving these fascinating, loving though sometimes passive aggressive animals in fur jackets, a home.

If someone wants to re-home a cat or kitten, before they are allowed to take it home, a trained volunteer follows them back to their home, like a pervert, and checks their home is suitable. If it is, they can return and take the cat or kitten home the same day. See no leather trousered, over rounded breasted female super hero here with steel spring-loaded climbing pitons.

Anyway, there are a few characters (many in their late 80s – good on em) and many unwritten rules. One, is that the lady in the kitchen who sells lunches and teas and coffees who appears not to like cats or people, runs the show. You are not allowed into the kitchen (god help you if you do) and if you want a cheese roll it is purely down to her if you get one. You can tell those who are good at influencing as they come away with a piece of carrot cake.

There’s another lady whose chair I accidentally sat in. It was definitely made apparent to me I needed to get out pronto. I’d love to see her go in the kitchen! I’m not sure how that would end but I’m pretty sure it would involve some flying cheese baps!

Anyway. We had these two gorgeous kittens who came in with their mum and the mum’s mum  All of them were cuddled together. I immediately took to this little black one, cuddling her and forming an instant bond, confirmed by her pawing gently at my face much to my sheer delight. We formed such a relationship, that even though my husband warned me no more animals, it was worth considering getting her and a divorce. He’d pissed me off in the morning and she was chewing on my hair lovingly, so it seemed the best option for all concerned.

Whilst working through the divorce settlement in my mind, or a cheaper option of murder, it happened. The little kitten was chosen. I eye’d up the people who were going to take her, (instantly understanding how a father feels assessing if a boyfriend is good enough) and wiped tears away from my eyes, I thought somewhat subtly.

Not so. The lady going to take the kitten clocked how upset I was and came over and put her arm gently on me and said, ‘it’s OK. If you fostered her you’re going to be upset. I can give you my mobile number and you can come and see her anytime’. ‘Oh no, I didn’t foster her, I only met her an hour ago’, I said. ‘Oh’ she said, visibly stepping back from me and retracting her arm. I was about to take her number too!

After the kitten left, the poor mum cat, still with one kitten, was pacing up and down her cage mewing profusely. She was so upset. I said to my sister, ‘poor thing, she’s missing her kitten. I wonder how long she will be distressed for?’ ‘Not long, don’t you remember our kittens?’ She replied.

What my sister is referring to is the fact she brought two kittens from one litter a few years back and I brought one too (Walnut, aka Mr Nut, height 20cms, weight 3.5 kilos, skills – running like a pantha, likes – cuffing the dog’s beard, dislikes – everything, particularly dog’s and their beards).

A week after taking our kittens home we felt bad that they were separated, so we agreed I’d take Walnut off in his carrier for a day out at my sisters to she his brother and sister. Good chance for some pictures for the family album we mutually agreed.

When I told Tony what we had planned he said, ‘don’t be a twat’, followed by, ‘blah, blah, blah blah, blah’ and more use of the word twat, peppered with something about cats not viewing family in the same way and it being a fucking stupid idea and would just stress the cats out. His rant ended with him saying he was having no part in it, followed by him jumping in the car and driving with me the half hour journey to my sisters, with little Nut in his carrier in the back. Driving along, I said it would be a good day out and good for Walnut’s development, turning the radio up every time he cried.

We got to my sisters, went inside, put Walnut’s carrier on the floor leaving it closed up and before my sister had even flicked the switch on the kettle, there was lots of hissing followed by furious head shaking from Tony.

My response was, ‘it’s alright honey, they are just getting re-acquainted’. With that, I opened the carrier and took the lid off completely. Immediately the two kittens swung in for Nut, swiping, and hissing and lashing out, an angry little team (kettle still not on).

Then, poor Nut took off and flew under the sofa followed by his furious siblings with their razor like sharp claws fully extended. More head shaking from Tony now complimented with disapproving looks and numerous statements like, ‘I knew this would happen. Call yourself an animal lover!’ resulting in me immediately re-evaluating my life.

With my terrified kitten trying to make himself invisible in an Amazon box, I had to admit defeat. I scruffed a petrified Nut and put him in his carrier, leaving after a total visit time of about 10 minutes. No cuppa. Didn’t even get chance to open the Wagon Wheels I’d brought.

Back in the car, the journey home went like this (with me not actually saying a word). ‘You’re a fucking twat, who does that, who takes their cat on a day trip to see their brother and sister’…’meow’…’you have totally freaked him out, listen to him’…’meow’…’he is so distressed you absolute twat’…’meow’. Yer, there was no real change in the conversation it was that on repeat other than one additional comment, ‘oh and stop keep turning the radio up to pretend his not crying’. That poor cat cried all the way home.

So, my sister had a point. This mum probably would forget her kittens by the time she caught her next blue tit.

My thoughts were distracted anyway. I am being trained to be a pervert. To follow people back to their homes to see if they are suitable. And my co-worker (one of these brilliant guys in their 80s), told me we had a job on. This time, while he was looking for me to tell me about our visit, and found me contemplating the closeness of animals to their spouses and telling those not yet reserved the universe would re-align to their way soon, the people we were to follow had already headed off.

That meant one thing. An A-Z apparently. I did say to my co-worker, I can use sat nav. But this brilliant and wonderful guy just said, ‘we don’t use that’, and lay his map out on one of the cafe tables where there was an absence of anyone eating cheese baps (no shit). He told me we needed to be in 9D. Jeez, every argument I’ve ever had over a map came back along with that complete inability to understand the information I was looking at.

I did show as much interest as I could in ‘9D’. He needed some help reading it and I was struggling to see the streets. So with my nose pinched like I was about to jump into a pool, I drew in closer to the map. The nose pinching is because I have a condition where my nose drips like a tap in certain conditions, and I suspected 9D might cause a rush of nasal fluid.

Nose pinched and reviewing the map, I still had no idea where we were heading, especially when our journey spanned two separate pages. I suggested again I use sat nav, and it was met with, ‘don’t believe in it. Always used maps, always will. Never an issue for my generation’. In the end, I just gave up, pretended I knew where I was going as co-pilot and off we went.

On the way to the car, I secretly looked up the address on sat nav, turned the sound down on my phone, and when he said, ‘right, where we off to then?’, I answered, with sat nav directing me in my left hand down the side of the seat and the door, whilst I pretended to follow the map, on my lap, with my right finger. When we arrived he said, ‘see, we don’t need sat nav’. I just smiled, a complete fraud! The return journey and our next job worked the same. With him saying, ‘so you can read maps’.

We got back and after re-homing the majority of the cats, started packing up and sweeping up the cat biscuits, including fat bloated ones soaked in water.

I came home and wondered in the car if tonight would be the night I would get to win tickets on the cruise on Ant and Dec. I’ll put matching socks on just in case we’re surprised on our sofa and placed on their screens. I did send an application last week and when it asked for a video I sent one of Tony dancing to ‘Word up’ some years back with just a hat strategically placed.

When I got home, I thought I’d spent too long with cats, so to balance out the love I took Winston (dog) for a long walk. What a lovely spring day. It was a nice walk until I saw a trail of white feathers. More than just from your average bird, and a trail into the bush, I broke through the brambles, getting my feet and arms scratched to buggery, concerned a swan may be in trouble and in need of assistance. After cuts and scratches from the growing blackberry bushes and other angry bushes, I found someone had just gone nuts it seemed ripping a pillow apart! Who does that. Wtf!

Oh and I started reading some diaries from when I was a kid that I’d found as I sort shit out in preparation for new wardrobes. I sat reading them fascinated. I started with the ones aged 11. It seemed in January 1984 I was quite pissed off. After an argument with my sister, I dipped her toilet brush down the toilet and put it back in the holder and annoyed with my mum I put a half cucumber in her work handbag!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Ghost dog!

Well finally Tony (husband) and I back from Gran Canaria after a 19 hour delay!

Fortunately, we did not return to 18 cat shits around the house like we did when we got back from Amsterdam!  Tony’s brother hadn’t realised the cat flap had somehow jammed and she’d not been going out. She pooped in the brand new fire place on top of the coals and on a tin of paint (with the handle up) – that’s when you know she must have been really cross to take such an awkward motion! She must have been squatting thinking, I’ll show those bastards.

Tony and I went to get our dog Winston from his foster carer. He was more pleased to greet us than when we got back from Mexico after 6 weeks. This time he could actually be arsed to say hello and brought me a small plastic chicken. Though when we got home the lore of the cat’s arse was much more appealing.

Willow (cat) was pleased to see us as she went out and brought us a mouse. But she’s so lazy these days, she just brought it in alive and spat it under the dining room table in a way that said, ‘you’re back then. There you go, I got you this, sort yourself out’, before gorging herself on biscuits while Tony, Winston and I chased the mouse with our selection of Tupperware/plastic Chinese boxes we keep just for this purpose. Fortunately this mouse was luckier than one I caught just before we went away, that veered to the left as it got used to the idea of having three legs.

Day before going back to work, there is only one thing to do, which actually I did after the first day back too! And that is, get your bra off, your PJs on, drink wine, whinge ‘this time yesterday I was eating paella’, oh and order unnecessary products from Amazon!

Today’s unnecessary products from Amazon to cheer myself up were:

1/ a magnifying glass because I realised how bad my eyes were on the beach last week when trying to identify if I was looking at moobs or boobs and because I spent 5 minutes calling the cat from the other side of the room and it was actually my own bra – not so bad though that I sat stroking my own cups. Since getting my magnifying glass, I no longer need to take my glasses off and read through one lens. However, Amazon now keeps saying, ‘people who brought this also brought’…and shows me pictures of shoe horns.

2/ the world’s smallest dustban and brush. So small it arrived in an A4 envelope. That’ll cheer me up. A bit of teeny, tiny sweeping.

On the day of going back to work, the dog just wouldn’t get up. He was trying to pull a sickie. He missed barging the door open and coming into the shower to try to lick my legs of soap and leg shavings with me shooing him away.

Instead, he decided to go in the spare bedroom, pull the duvet off the bed and crawl inside the cover. Check out the picture. That dog shape in a sheet is a dog in a sheet. It’s not a ghost dog.

Started my post holiday exercise regime. It is to dance everytime the Jet2holidays advert comes on. That’s it. Period.

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Easyjet or just regret!

This blog picks up from my previous blog where we arrived at Gran Canaria’s airport to fly home from holiday, back to Southend Airport and we’re waiting to board the flight on their hottest day of the year and I am a shit scared flyer.

So boarding didn’t actually happen, not to us anyway, as while we were still waiting to get through the gate those already on the plane were off boarded.

Word quickly spread from the other passengers, not from any ground staff, they had been told to get off due to ‘a technical problem with the plane’.  Just what every nervous flyer wants to hear and for the second time that day I was pleased I had not gone commando (see previous blog) as my bowels needed the extra support of pants as they were also threatening to off board and just as quickly!

Once again, by another passenger, we were advised that they were calling an engineer to fix it. At which point I turned into B. A. Baracus and basically said ‘I ain’t getting on no plane’. I think I might have said ‘f’ing’, before plane.

Our airline, easyjet, continued to make no announcement about what was happening. And we continued to get updates from other passengers. ‘Latest is the engineer will be here in an hour’. ‘It’s a gauge that’s gone’. Er who are you and why are you giving me technical updates which basically amount to the probability of me surviving this goddam flight!

Tony, my husband, asked me if I was ok? ‘Er, no. I’ve basically gotta get on a broken plane that’s broken!’ ‘An engineer has been called in to fix it’. ‘Yer, a bloke that’s probably on the beach somewhere right now, drinking Sangria, dancing to a mariachi band, and pissed off being called in. That makes me feel really good’. ‘It’s ok, he will be experienced’, Tony said just before he started laughing loudly looking out to the plane saying ‘he’s here, he’s just arrived in a golf buggy thing wearing a sombrero’.  ‘Great what’s he gonna do shake his maracas at it!’

Still no announcements, just information via other passengers that veered from, we will be flying at 2am (great, 11 hours in an airport), to, nope we are going tomorrow. There were no easyjet staff. The only guy that was there to represent easyjet told us just that and no more. ‘I’m here to represent easyjet but I am not part of them and have no idea what is happening’. Whatever question you asked, he repeated this.

We sat down for a while in a bank of 4 seats next to two other passengers. My legs facing away from them in a clear, I do not want to engage in polite conversation with you way. Some people can’t pick up on body language, as a desperate attempt was made to engage us in conversation. ‘They are probably checking the wings are still there, they just need a bit of oil on it, they’re getting an elastic band as we speak, that’ll fix it’. Just keep looking at your shoes I think.

But the conversation doesn’t stop there. Immediately everyone starts to share their ‘I was so delayed once stories’. ‘All you can hear is, people talking to their partners saying, ‘do you remember the time we went to Egypt and got delayed, it was terrible’, ‘yer we got delayed coming back from America, you’ve never known anything like it’. God it went on. Everyone with a story, everyone described in infinite detail and everyone thinking they had the far worst experience.  There was a sense of pride that went with the stories.

I felt sorry for a couple excited to be going to Southend for their holiday. Not because of the delay, but because they are going to Southend for their holiday! The delay building a sense of anticipation that it will be worth the wait. Er, it won’t. A bloke is telling them you’ll like it. Yer, if they want to buy a kebab and go to a strip show at any time of the day.

A day out in Southend one afternoon is where Tony and I understood the definition of broken Britain. We’ve known each other since we were 13 and our birthdays are a day apart, so it is tradition for us to go to Southend and basically get smashed.

A bit drunk one birthday, we went into a bar. A woman in a short, orange dress came up to Tony and while I went for a wee (just a short one mind, no lipstick application or anything), she offered him sex. This was unfortunate as he had just ordered two tuna baguettes. So unable to leave and not wanting the sex, we took them outside and sat at the tables.

That’s when we clocked the strip show sign. Underneath advertising a list of snacks, it said the show started at 1pm. It was bizarre, people were sitting around eating cockles and winkles waiting for this. There was a bloke with his shirt off, all red, throwing his baby up in the air with the sign just behind him. With some careful positioning we caught a snap, while Tony pretended to snap me eating my baguette. But sure, maybe this couple stuck in the airport waiting to visit Southend will like it!

Anyway, having now been stuck in the airport for hours, we went to get some wine in the bar. Something got lost in translation (in a good way) when I asked for two large wines (see the picture). Quite happy to keep going to the bar to get wine in that quantity (already feeling quite drunk), I was disappointed to see the shutters go down. And looking around, I realised everything was shutting.  And not only that, there were only two food places left open and with sandwiches now at a premium, and still no flight update, people were starting to shove and push for a cheese toastie.

We then decided we’d just get wine from duty free and get hammered. So off I went. I grabbed a bag of sweets to replace the small child’s shoe that was eaten by our dog while he was looked after by his foster family and spent about 20 minutes locating the only bottle of wine with a screw top. I found a couple of shot glasses with bull fighters on (my principles had long gone) and made my way to the till. At which point, I had no boarding pass and had to leave my purchases there and walk the 20 miles back to the gate to get it.

On the way back to the gate, I clearly had time to reflect on our situation and the fact the latest rumour was we’d fly tomorrow but with no real updates or announcements or wine in bull fighting glasses, I wanted answers.

So, I went up to the representative, basically a man with a badge saying happy to help but whose words were less congruent, when he kept saying, ‘I can’t help’ and while everyone was patiently queuing for a voucher for a meal, I turned into an idiot. I embarrassed myself by going up to the unhelpful guy and telling him that I spoke on behalf of all the passengers (no election took place), and we wanted hotels for the night as it was against our human rights to sleep in an airport (twat).

Once again he said he couldn’t help. ‘Well you’re not worthy of that badge’ I told him. This strong and adult argument was sure to win him over and get us hotels. There is no doubt the seriousness of my argument was undermined when I got my note book out which had been chewed to shit by my puppy, I slapped it on his podium saying I was going to write down everything he said. Why, no idea. Just cheese toastie deprivation I guess which had impacted my mental functioning hence not thinking to actually just live stream!

Not only was I speaking for all the passengers (idiot), I was walking around with copies of ‘what happens if my flight is delayed’? Leaflets I found randomly strewn in an area of the airport. No doubt left by some other stranded easyjet passengers whose skeletons I’d find later.

I read out paragraph 2 repeatedly, (with excessive finger pointing I might add) which clearly stated we were ‘welcome to a hotel’. Not just entitled, but ‘welcome’, as I kept emphasising to this man. The queue turned into the House of Commons with lots of jeering, ‘yer’, though no-one called anyone a ‘pleb’ or fell asleep as far as I know.

Then, people started coming up to me and asking me questions. ‘I’m trying to get back to my brother’s wedding in Oz, what do I do’? ‘How do we use the food vouchers’? ‘Are we getting hotels’? I had become the people’s voice.

After about an hour of this and being told to ring the easyjet centre in the UK (helpful when it’s closed), and then speaking to the easyjet rep in Spain only for her to put the phone down on me (21:03 that went in the book for me to do absolutely nothing with later), we had a discussion in the queue about our strategy. The basis of the strategy was me saying, ‘we’ll get it sorted’, when a better strategy would have been to just shut up!

Some people had emails now from easyjet telling them accommodation was being booked for us and yet the Live Update board on the easyjet website basically said, ‘you’re on your own, fuck off. Find your own accommodation’.

It seemed there was nothing available on the island. At which point, I did what any self-respecting leader does. I sorted myself out. I arranged for us to go back to our apartment as it was empty tonight. It was only 1 bed and we did make some half arsed offers for people to stay, but only after first mentioning it was small, cramped, 1 bed but they were welcome to join us if they wanted to sleep on the tiled balcony. Everyone declined but in doing so we felt it was agreed we should go.

But how to get out of the airport? Well, this helpful security guy took us back out through security. Of course it wasn’t embarrassing to see the security lady at her station laugh at me as we went by, as they switched off the equipment and finished their shift. If you didn’t read yesterday’s blog, I basically flashed her my pants in some confused exchange about swabbing me and my stuff.

If you have every tried getting a cab at an airport that’s closed it’s not easy. Though eventually we did find one. Once back at our hotel, I enjoyed getting all the jokey status updates on Facebook about our ordeal! Thanks friends J

I didn’t want to go to work tomorrow, who does at the end of holiday, I didn’t mean like this! At least we have somewhere to stay and our flight is confirmed for 10:15am tomorrow and I found a beer in the fridge that we left for the maid. Yer, she’s not getting it. Oh and after all week of moaning there weren’t enough towels I opened a draw and found a shit load and a spare toilet roll so we didn’t have to ration out square by square yesterday being too tight to buy a 1 euro pack and leave the majority behind!

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The Russian revolution man

Time to come home from Gran Canaria back to Essex. Last day of holiday is like a year’s worth of Sunday nights and New Year’s Eves all at once, when you don’t want to go back to work and think of everything else you’d rather do with your life with vague promises of making some changes.

I moan about going home and say, ‘the only thing there is to look forward to now is the Russian revolution on the history channel in full colour and high definition’. My husband Tony asks, ‘you looking forward to that then?’ ‘Nope, that’s kind of my point’.

Still at least our flight isn’t until 5pm and our cab to the airport is not until 3pm, or at least we hope, given some basic arrangements with the taxi company about them meeting us outside ‘the shop’ at a time I think we both understood to be the same.

It is the only nice day we’ve had since we have been here. Oh yer, everyone is on the beach today. Everyone is on the sun beds and splashing in the sea. Everyone is getting tanned and not shivering their tits off as we have all week.

After spending time sulking about going home and then taking snaps of basically everything, we went off for a civilised lunch and some Sangria, before a leisurely stroll back to the apartment to get our stuff and head to ‘the shop’ to meet the cab. Calm, relaxed, sunglasses on.

Of course, there was no cab there. And for 15 minutes we were sure one wouldn’t arrive until a car pulled up, which I can only describe as something between a stretched limousine and a hurse. It wasn’t in good condition. Every time we accelerated it sounded like a low inbound helicopter coming into land. Tony said, ‘Jeez, I’ve not been in a car this screwed since the Gambia’.  Hard to hear him as we accelerate again.

The traffic was horrendous getting to the airport. The bloke tells us it’s the hottest day of the year so far (of course it is, we’re going home) and everyone is off to the beach. Gotta love that, it’s 3:30pm and people at work are like, ‘yer, about the conference call, I’m off to the beach’.

We got to the check in and prided ourselves on being the first to check into our flight. ‘This is the way to travel’, we said, exchanging proud glances, looking forward to a bit of civilised duty free shopping and a beer before hopping on our flight, though I am already transitioning into a nervous flyer quicker than Michael J Fox becoming a werewolf in Teen Wolf.

Off to airport security. It’s a mystery to me how flying from the UK its belts off, boots off and liquids in plastic bags. Over here none of this happens and I wonder whether they are taking this seriously or just thinking of getting to the beach on this the hottest day of the year.

There does appear to be an adequate level of attention as my stuff is pulled over. There was the initial conversation of, ‘have you got liquids in this bag’? ‘No’, followed by the security guy pulling out a large bottle of water, shaking his head and then putting it in the bin. Then he pointed at a security woman and I deciphered that his miserable grunts were informing me to go over to her. Yep definitely the case as this non-smiling, hard faced woman was calling me over with her finger.

Mrs Happy then started swabbing basically everything I owned. Inside my case, bag, you name it, it got swabbed. She pointed at my stomach and said some things that made me feel tense. She definitely wasn’t asking if I had a nice holiday and wishing me a pleasant flight!

She pointed at my stomach again. At which point I started lifting my dress up thinking she wanted to swab my stomach, like they do when you go into hospital thinking, I’m glad I didn’t go commando today. This was one of two options left to me when I discovered last night I was a pair of pants down. The other option, which I took, was to wash a pair in a dishwasher tablet. They are clean but crunchy.

With my full briefs on partial display to this lady, she frantically set about pulling my dress down for me, saying ‘no, no, no, no’. And then, she burst into hysterics. Even with the basic exchange between us, I knew she was saying, ‘what are you doing you twat’? She swabbed my tummy through my dress, laughing. She patted me on the arm, laughing. And she told the miserable grunter, laughing. They were both in hysterics. ‘Yes, funny, we laugh’, I said in Pigeon English in a way to bring us together, though my pants had just done that.

I look at Tony and he is shaking his head. ‘What have you just done? Did you actually just lift your dress up to that woman’? ‘Yes’, I said, looking back to see the woman bent over, still laughing. ‘Why the hell did you do that for god’s sake’? ‘Because I thought she wanted to swab my tummy’. ‘When have you ever known them do that at the airport’?

He had a point but in my defence, she just kept pointing at my stomach aggressively and I’ve taken 4 anti-mental flyer tablets (only supposed to take 2) and had a shit load of Sangria and I’m stressed as hell about flying and it all happened quickly.

‘Oh well, she was a miserable cow when we arrived. Now look at her. I’m just spreading the love’, I say. I think I’ll be spreading the love for a while judging by how much she is continuing to laugh, she’ll be telling co-workers for years, ‘I had a woman lift up her dress once’. Oh god, now she’s  actually doing the motion of lifting up a dress to other co-workers now also laughing. Bastards.

So, my bag not only does not stand up and has fallen 118 times in the last 10 minutes (obviously I exaggerate to make the point), and the handle does not fold down, but both wheels have now jammed and are not turning. My case is basically just using them as skis. This prompts me to ask it if it’s ‘f’ing kidding me?’ And in an attempt to get one up on the bag, I turn it over and drag it on its stomach, repeatedly calling it a piece of crap and kicking it up the arse.

Our flight is called. As we walk to the gate, I remember why I fell out with this bag before. Coming back on a flight previously, I lost my boarding pass between entering the gate and the plane. Every single person on that flight went round me while I frantically searched my bags. They stepped over my case and its permanently extended handle, as it had naturally fallen over upon immediately coming to a stand. I eventually found the boarding card bastard nestled into the pages of my book (still not read).

I was the last person onto the aircraft that day. Everyone was seated and looking at me. Stressed, nervous about the flight and the wheels on the case rolling and stopping in an ad-hoc  fashion, I kicked it along the gang way. The stewardess telling me to put my bag up the front as there was no more space above my seat at the back. Her offers of assistance ignored, I lifted the case/piece of crap up and in doing so, in one complete action, the handle forced its way up my floating shirt and as I lifted it into the overhead locker, it took my top up and flashed my lacy bra and a bit of nipple to the entire flight.

There exposed, I saw in slow motion every face on that flight looking at my chest. Tony just staring at me further along the plane with a look of embarrassment and disappointment which I’d like to never see again.

We are now boarding. I have my boarding pass, my dress is in its rightful place, I haven’t flashed anyone but I have transitioned into nervous flyer. We will be on our way shortly back to London Southend (er, it’s just Southend). Soon back to reality. Insert sad emoji here.

Ps, the picture is of our bags that just don’t stand!

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Shit or strawberries

Holiday fun in Gran Canaria continues…woke up on the sofa in my swimming costume with vague memories of Tony snoring in the night and randomly grabbing my costume from the balcony not thinking it was right to lay unclothed on another person’s sofa. I woke up with one of the boob pads under my pit.

Our morning greeting went like this, ‘why are you in your costume’? ‘You were snoring’. ‘Doesn’t answer my question’.

We get dressed and go to book another massage. We were going to book to go to the Fish Spa to have our feet nibbled but Tony said let’s save money and just use the ped egg.

As we walk, Tony reckons his cheap shorts are so hot his sperm count is lowering with every step.

We had a massage, 2.5 hours. I had the same little bloke as a few days ago and I watched as his feet slayed out trying to massage me like he was pushing a car up hill. At the end of it, this time it felt like there were warm pickles pressed into my eyes and head. I preferred being bashed on the forehead with his balls.

When you are massaged that long basically it opens a direct line to god. You become so chilled. I joke. ‘I spoke to God Tony’. ‘Did you, want did he say’? ‘Open an espadrille shop and never leave this island’.

We were told to take it easy, to drink lots of water and chill. I plan to go back, do some diaphragmatic breathing and meditate. Though actually back at the apartment, I ate crisps. Apparently, ‘a lot of crisps’. The walk back was hard, couldn’t keep my flip flops on with all that patchouli oil. They stuck to my feet so not a lot of flop going on.

After a siesta we go out for beer. ‘Honey, incoming, you’re 12 o’clock’, I say to Tony as more street performers come over for money. ‘Is it alright to say we paid them yesterday’? He says. ‘Just avoid eye contact, look at your shoes or phone now’, I tell him.

‘No’, I say assertively, waving off a lady approaching us from the front, who unfortunately is the waitress and looks somewhat annoyed/bewildered.

It’s cold. I say, ‘that’s it, I am bloody freezing, I’m going to have to get a jumper. I’m going to the shop’. Once there, I have to think long and hard about just how cold I am and how much I need the jumper, when the only one suitable is a zip up hoodie that says ‘me baby’. I decide I’ll risk a further bout of pneumonia. I head back to our table.

‘Did you get a jumper’. ‘No, I could only find one that said, me baby’. ‘Jeez, how cold would you need to be before wearing that’. ‘Exactly’.

Someone else comes over and hangs about. ‘Have they gone’? Tony asks speaking to his phone. ‘No, they are still in the area where they could claim potential payment’, I say from my vantage point looking at my sandals.

I moan, ‘oh bloody hell, now there’s an old guy coming over selling stuff…I’m about to feel like I’ve pushed a baby bird out of it’s nest when I say no…and look he’s followed by that old skinny guy in flairs. I’m gonna have to give him something he’s been walking since 1973’. ‘He’s going to think those TV screens are the devils work’. ‘Brilliant, now there’s someone with a crutch followed by someone in a mobility scooter, oh no, his reversing our way. Let’s get the bill’.

Yer, getting the bill is never quick here. Basically, you need to grab someone’s throat and shake them to get it, or ask them for the menu, your drinks, an ash tray, your food (inc desserts) and the bill all at once if you want it in a timely fashion.

We are both trying to make contact with the waitress non too subtle, basically standing up and doing full body twists looking for her. I’m starting to mentally answer the question Tony had about how cold would you need to be before buying the ‘me baby’ hoodie. It’s about now.

Still waiting for our bill. Tony asks, ‘you made eye contact yet’? ‘No, you’. ‘No, I thought you had’. ‘Why’s it my responsibility’? ‘It’s not’. ‘Right well get eye contacting’. ‘With whom, there is no-one here. There’s 5 members of staff but they’ve all gone. I’d bloody sack the lot’.

‘Quick, get the bill’, Tony says holding his breath. ‘What’s the matter’? ‘Someone is pumping raw sewage and it smells like rancid fish tank when your fish are dead’. I have no sense of smell so I can’t smell it. ‘What like when you’ve left them a few days and don’t know they’re dead’. ‘Er no, you don’t do that’. ‘Well I did I had a lot of responsibilities as a kid’. ‘I don’t need to know about that now, I need to get away from the smell of shit. It’s like I have my nose stuck on a cow’s arse’.

I am in hysterics. Eventually the waitress comes over and says, ‘do you want a coffee’? ‘Do we want a coffee…er, no I think we are ok thanks. It’s been a lovely meal, great, thank you. Muchas Gracias. Enjoy your day’, Tony says paying. ‘I love it, you have been moaning about her all that time and then you are so polite’. ‘What am I supposed to say, no I don’t want coffee it stinks of shit here’!

We go to the shops and I have a fit of giggles about the shit which Tony is still moaning about. I am literally crying at the veg. My laughter reaches uncontrollable levels when they play the Spanish teletubbies, immediately followed by Bryan Adams, everything I do. I am literally wiping tears away from my face, saying, ‘what self respecting DJ does that’. ‘Shut up, stop laughing, everyone is looking at us’, I’m reprimanded.

We go to the shop that sells two things. Sweets or fags, which we just find hilarious. Kinder egg or 20 Marlboro?

We walk home and Tony’s sandal starts making a fart noise. It must be from our oily feet. I find this a lot more hilarious than it actually needs to be.

We get in the lift. ‘Jeez, how much perfume did that woman who just got out have on. It smells like strawberries. It’s so strong. Great, you go from shit to strawberries in 60 seconds. It’s giving me a headache’. I am literally crying.

We go out to sit on the veranda. The second I sit on my wicker chair, the seat makes a straining nose before separating from the wicker back as the two back legs buckle in. ‘Jeez, you’ve just broken the chair you fat cow’. ‘Well you broke the coffee machine you skinny bastard’. Once again, I am just dying as I get a new chair. ‘Can we talk about politics or something I am about to have an asthma attack laughing’!

‘Are you having a nice time, you haven’t said you are’? I ask wiping tears from my face. ‘Don’t be so needy’, is the response.

Tony starts reading out one of those survey things called, 1’2 things your man does to show he loves you’. ‘Number 1, he loves you showing affection’, pissing myself I say, ‘er, you tell me I’m needy’. He continues, ‘number 2, he holds your hand for no reason’. ‘No, you only hold it coz you need help walking’! ‘Brilliant. Screw this, let’s have dinner’. We make dinner. The picture shows the scene we cook in. Excited I use the only function I have on my Smart watch to time the spaghetti only to find the symbol that looks like an alarm is actually just the volume button for when your phone rings!

We watch TV stretched out on the sofa. I put my pillow on his buttocks saying, ‘they’re the best buttocks on the island’, biting one. ‘Owe’. ‘That didn’t hurt, it was all pocket’.

I fell asleep in those bad boys watching a film that went on far too long. Basically, there were some bad men on horses, looking for other bad men not on horses. Some prostitutes were involved. Some money was involved. I kept waking up and thinking, jeez it’s still on!

At the end of the movie I say, ‘that was a long film wasn’t it’. ‘Er, most people can watch a two hour film. It was only long because you kept asking every 2 minutes how long it had left and stop farting’. ‘I’m not, it’s my feet on the sofa look’. ‘It’s your bleeding clowns feet’.

I get up sulking. ‘What’s it doing’? ‘I’m clearing these pepper seeds off the kitchen surface so we can have a coffee in the morning’. ‘You mean so I can make you a coffee in the morning’. ‘Er, I’ll be sleeping there (points to bed), so if you’re so inclined you want to make a coffee in the morning that’s up to you (shit, I hope he makes me a coffee in the morning)!

We go to bed. I make it quite well known I am still annoyed with him by swishing my hair and reluctantly offering up my lips for a kiss. ‘It’s annoyed ain’t it’ (hah, it worked). ‘Nope, I’m not’ (so am).

I turn over to switch off the light saying a short, ‘night’, before, I switch the main lights on by mistake, then off again, then on, ‘bloody hell’, he moans, the wardrobe lights come on, then Spanish music starts blaring out (oh it seems that can be played out on the veranda too). ‘What the hell are you doing’? ‘I’m having a personal Spanish disco in bed, what do you think I am doing, I am trying to switch the lights off…you wouldn’t have any light in your life if it weren’t for me’. ‘Is this some profound shit or are you still talking about the lights’? ‘Just go to sleep’, I say. ‘You go to sleep’, he replies. ‘I can’t sleep because you keep talking’. ‘Well I can’t sleep because you keep flashing the bloody lights’.

I eventually get the lights off and shove my ear plugs in so far I think they’re in Tenerife! I know within half an hour I’ll be in my swimming costume again on the sofa with his bloody snoring!

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The beach boys

I wake up to what sounds like  a champagne cork popping. Followed by the word ‘brilliant…er so the coffee machine has blown up then’. I get up and say ‘oh’. That covered it really.
There’s coffee everywhere and Tony says, ‘great it’s even charred my coffee cup’. It so has. Right where the lips of a left hand person go as per the picture!
I clear up the coffee saying, ‘I thought you were making me a champagne breakfast and here I am on me knees mopping up your grouts’.
We drink our coffee in bed. Tony drinks his and says, ‘hhhmmm, the taste of coffee and carbon’.
We listen to the waves through the open window. Tony asks, ‘does it want another coffee’? ‘Er, does it involve blowing the place up again’?
Tony goes off to make an instant coffee, washing out the blown up machine and putting it in the back of the cupboard saying, ‘coffee machine, nah, never used it’.
We decide we’ll go chill on the beach today. The actual conversation went with me suggesting it and Tony indicating he thought that was a great idea. Possibly even better than that.
So off we went. We lay our towels down and laid out, me using my handbag as a pillow. I started listening to global journey. Tune.
With the romance of the beach, I lay with my eyes shut and started thinking back to the last holiday I had with my ex 8 years ago, when I knew I wanted to be with Tony. While chilling day by day on the beach in Barbados, interrupted only by the aloe vera and coconut sellers, all I could think of was being with Tony and what we would be doing if we were on the beach together right then.
I saw us beach body perfect, both in little trunks with pert arses and mahogany bodies but without the leathered look, walking hand in hand with pedicured toes that enjoyed the sand (mine even looking less clown like). The sun beating down on us creating just enough sweat that instead of suggesting a hygiene issue or a sweaty bottom was appealing, creating a golden, dewy shimmer on our tight bodies that oozed appeal. The water warm and we splash playfully in it.
The memory was so romantic, after 5 minutes of my global journey, I opened my eyes to look at my relaxed husband laying next to me (not).
Sitting awkwardly, fully clothed and bolt up right like a meerkat the minute he saw me open my eyes he said, ‘I hate this beach shit. You get sand everywhere and you just have to sit amongst half naked sweaty strangers’.
We have actually only been on the beach for 20 minutes and most of that I was fantasising about us being on a different beach at a different point in time and me with a very different body, one that still had an outline and held the same form whatever.
I suggest a walk into the water and start singing, ‘into the sea you and me’ by the Love Cats. We paddle and Tony instantly moans ‘er, it’s freezing’ and steps back out. ‘Oh and now all the sand is like actually sticking to my feet’. I think, sod him. I’m going in and when the water gets to my ankles I take a sharp in take of breath before agreeing, ‘it’s bloody cold’ and getting equally annoyed sand is now sticking to me.
We both have poor eyesight and so we played a game of moobs or boobs? Taking it in turns to pick someone out and confirm their body parts with a simple, ‘moobs’ or ‘boobs’.
After a while of this game, and stretching back out to chill/commencing meerkat position, two annoying young boys turned up who seemed to be playing tag literally on my beach towel. I exaggerate but the point was I was getting covered in sand while they were having fun as their bloody feet flicked up sand as they went playfully by! And this was made worse by Tony lifting his legs up to do his MS exercises.
‘Forget it, let’s go back for a siesta’ I say. ‘Great, I didn’t want to come to the bloody beach anyway’. ‘Well then why did you say you wanted to come’. ‘Well I thought you’d know I wouldn’t want to and we’d do something else’. ‘Yer, good plan, let’s start communicating by telepathy only and say the reverse of what we actually want coz that’s not confusing’. ‘Well, I didn’t want to upset you’. ‘I’d hardly have been upset and anyway, we could have just played moobs or boobs from the balcony’.
Later we re-emerge and go shopping. On the way out of the apartment I look in the lift mirror and comment I still have lines on my face from when I was sunbathing on my handbag like forever ago now. Tony tells me, ‘it’s coz the elasticity in your skin is going’. Bloody charming. Where’s that lovely romantic guy with the mahogany buns gone? And the guy who before a siesta didn’t want to upset me about not going to the beach but post siesta is quite happy to tell me I am literally ageing before my eyes. Shit, how much older will I look when this the slowest lift I have ever been in actually gets to the ground floor (if it does which has been in doubt everyday).
In the shop, each time I am so impressed by the shopping trolley and film myself using it and promoting its skills round by the crisps. I particularly like its turning capabilities and ability to be utilised and pulled from any angle. ‘Er, what you doing’? I’m being asked by Tony (fortunately not security), as I am filming and commenting on the trolley, but I am quickly distracted as I see a bloke dressed as a pirate in the shop buying vodka. Is he an alcoholic time traveller?
We dump our stuff and head out for a drink. Beer in hand, Tony comments along the lines of how all the bras are fully utilised around here and some are definitely straining dealing with their contents saying, ‘help me’, which he says as though he is one of the bras holding back the breasts unable to take the strain of his load any longer.
We head back and cook mussels which had some hairy sack bits inside. We sat drinking wine, chewing on the hairy sacks on our balcony.  All of a sudden there’s a massive bang. It’s not a hairy sack exploding in our mouths, so we just assume that Trump has finally pressed the button. Ready to give each other a quick cuddle before fighting over the last of the wine, we realise this is some sort of start to a carnival procession. Oh, that explains the pirate buying vodka!
Naturally, we take 100s of pictures and videos which we will never watch again, and they will just be an annoyance on my phone when I try to find and show my favourite dog picture. The one where when Winston was a puppy and I went through a phase of growing vegetables he was the same size as an extremely large beetroot.
Wearing Tony’s coat now, I am absolutely freezing!
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Little respect for the knicker line

So with the weather disappointing, well, basically cold, we decided to get a massage.
The bloke at reception checked his diary and despite it being completely empty told us to come back initially in 15 minutes, but then he changed it to 30 minutes. We realised why when he followed us outside as we left and sat down at a table leisurely ordering a beer. Fair play.
Time for our massage. We went into the room to get changed, and to have the discussion we always have when we have a massage about what they just told us to do with our underwear, despite pants on, bras off being a general universal principle.
I am convinced whilst we got changed that they were pulling straws on who should do the fat one (me). Well, it was the skinny bloke that got the short straw. His legs were so tiny they basically resembled tights when you first get them out of their packaging. Small, with a basic leg shape.
I lay down on the bed face down in that hole thing that’s a bit like putting your face in a toilet seat. I’ve mentioned I can’t taste. This is due to a nasal condition that is typically associated with older men. It means that when my head is in certain positions, my nose leaks like a tap. Well, this is one of those positions and my nose leaked onto the lotus leaf in a bowl below. I wondered how long it could actually drip for. It was enough to do two arms and a leg.
When my guy straddled me (it was a Thai massage which I’ve not had before and wasn’t prepared for this to happen but it was a charming surprise), I felt so sorry for him. He was like a tiny ballerina white water rafting, trying to keep on my bloated body. Right there was the definition of abuse of workers and why there still is a place for trade unions in the modern era.
His hands were so tiny it was like little pigeon’s feet walking over me. And those little fellas definitely didn’t show much respect for the knicker line. Basically, if that line was between two countries, there were definitely points were the sacred triangle could have read signs as a declaration of war. Though, those invasions were more of a welcome wander as was the sweeping across the fat bits of your boobs that swell out when you lay on your front and they swell out and nest into your armpits.
At the end of the massage there was some ball bouncing that occurred on the face area. I felt like he had snooker balls in a stocking that he was bashing onto my forehead. As he did, he was speaking softly. I wasn’t sure if I should say ‘pardon’, but realised he was doing some sort of chanting. That or he was saying ouch, ‘this one’s put my back out. Fat cow’.
At the end, the first thing I said to Tony was, ‘did you have that ball bouncing shit on your head’. ‘Yep, there was definite ball bouncing on my head, that did happen and she went very close to my privates a few times, there was a definite bit of sweeping going on round there’. ‘Yer, I had it too. We’ll re-book shall we’. And of course we did.
I told Tony I felt like I’d abused the poor guy and that the only fairest way to massage me was like one of those car washes in the UK when one person does your wheels and another one your windows. ‘Yer, I’m surprised they didn’t bring a tag team in to service you’. ‘Thanks’.
As we came out I commented on the statute of a naked man with a very small manhood. Tony said, ‘perhaps that’s why that masseur took such an interest in mine’. I stopped to take a picture and we named him Tiny Roger.