Skinny Dipping

I’ve just got back from three weeks holiday, upon which I did my usual ‘I’m going to be a better person when I get home’ list. I do it every time. I never stick to it. I don’t know why I bother.

It’s like new year’s resolutions. I don’t make those, because I think they are there to be broken, but give me a few weeks in the sun and I’ll start making lists of all the things I want to achieve when I get home.

This year’s three week trip around Thailand was no different. By the end of it, I had a list as long as my arm. I couldn’t wait to get home and start implementing the strategies that were going to lead me out of my overdraft and into heaven. Strategy one – don’t buy stuff.

Then I got home. How exactly was I supposed to do without these overpriced black boots with buttons and purple bits? I didn’t have to answer that question, because I bought them and I don’t care who knows it. I love them.

Strategies have not been implemented. I’m still impulse buying as if it’s going out of fashion. I needed some water while out with my man the other day so we popped into Holland and Barratt. It was no mean feat for me to walk past all the supplements promising to make my hair shiny and my nails strong, but I managed it. We got to the drinks cabinet at the back and I naturally bypassed the normal water and zoomed in on the eye catching ‘skinny water.’

‘Skinny water?’ Gareth asked, perplexed. ‘So, that’s water then, but with less calories than water, which has no calories.’

‘Yes,’ I stuttered, noting the clever way they’d written ‘skinny’ as if the word itself had been on a diet.

‘It’s, er, good for you,’ I said. Witty retort, Kim, witty retort.

‘It’s twice the price of water,’ he replied.

My hand wavered. This is exactly the reason I’ll never get out of debt. Because I am a marketing team’s dream.

Those fat cats, sitting on their skinny chairs, chewing their skinny pencils, they know that people like me are lured by words like ‘skinny’.

Not today. I didn’t buy the silly water at twice the price of water.

Thus, my overpriced black boots with buttons and purple bits are entirely justifiable. All I have to do is not buy a hell of a lot more skinny water.

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Devout Atheist

Let me spend no more than one introductory sentence acknowledging how dry my pen has been for too many months now. Here is my mojo. I had lost it. But then I found it. Now I shall begin.

I had lunch with a devout Christian once. She, simultaneously, was having lunch with a devout Atheist. She had more fun that I did, that’s for sure. While listening to her bang on about God, I learned that God liked to test people. Apparantly, he killed nine of her friends in a bus crash – to test her. Then he killed her fiance… you know, just to test her again. Nice guy, God. Full of surprises.

While sailing the Adaman Seas, off the coast of Thailand, God decided to test me.

Having fun, Kim? Mind if I spoil the party? He probably said, as he began meddling with my holiday.

The players in this holiday are: Paso Doble, the catamaran boat my dad had chartered for two weeks off the coast of Thailand. (I know, sounds rubbish doesn’t it.) Me, present and correct. Bryan, my dad, captain of the ship. Gareth, my boyfriend, Nigel, his dad, and Nicola, a dear, friend of mine. We have the same appetite. I love her.

Firstly, our team of five became four. No, God didn’t test me by killing one of my beloved. That would have been extra specially mean and in fact puts into perspective just what I went through compared to the God botherer I lunched with. All that happened was my boyfriend got sick and went home – but being a savvy wordsmith, I’m going to eek it out into a full entry of woe and sorrow and by jove, by the end of it, you’ll be asking directions to the nearest church.

It was monsoon season, so I might have expected torrential rain. But still, it didn’t help. It just made everything all the more miserable and wet.

After another restless night, Gareth decided he’d had enough and needed to get to a hospital. Being a caring and committed girlfriend, I decided not to go with him. After all, it might be sunny again soon and this skin doesn’t brown itself.

So it was arranged that Jones senior would take Jones junior to hospital, while Captain Bryan, Nicola and myself would wait on the beautiful island of Ko Kradan for their hopefully safe return. But at 6am that morning, God decided to climb aboard our boat and wee everywhere, metaphorically speaking. Although, it did rain a lot. Rain is god’s wee.

We were warned there would be immigration problems, if Gareth tried to leave the boat. Crew members aren’t allowed to leave willy nilly, you see. It’s the law of the sea.

Best we all took a Thai dragon boat taxi over to the mainland and try to explain to the immigration officials what was going on together, as a team. As a crew. So, donning waterproofs, we headed to the rickety dragon boat.

Breakfast was out of the question, we had urgent immigrational issues to sort out. Five hours and a lot of confused customs officials later, we finally had our passports stamped.

‘Mr Sick go home?’ the customs man asked, pointing at Gareth. Yes, Mr Sick go home. As we waved him off, there was an impending sense of doom in all our hearts. We had lost a man. It didn’t feel right. Shipmates were meant to stick together. Shipmates were meant to drink rum and say ahoy. It was not to be.

The rain kept coming as Gareth was taken away. Time for us to head back to our boat, the Paso Doble. Lunchtime passed by in a blur, not a sausage passed any lips. I can sometimes muster the power to skip breakfast, but not lunch too.

God was obviously enjoying our suffering. A little more rain, chaps? Why yes please, thank you God, how kind of you, just in time for our crossing back to the island.

The waves crashing all about us were higher than the boat. At times I was sure the law of physics were going out the window and we were certain to capsize. It felt as if an invisible man (was it you, God?) was throwing buckets of salt water in my face. I wasn’t happy.

Dad, however, took the opportunity to sleep. We were being thrown around in a boat no bigger than a bath tub, in a storm we later found out to be the tail winds of a cyclone, and he napped. Amongst all the sadness of losing Gareth and the horribleness of the rain, Nicola and I mustered a giggle. (it was hard – we were very hungry. But we managed it) We laughed at Dad’s crap waterproofs filling up with rain. We laughed at how he managed to sleep through the invisible man’s bucket throwing. We laughed at how cold and wet and hungry we were. We laughed because that was all we had left.

We got back to the island at 5pm. Still not a morsel had passed our lips.

Would you like a slightly warm shower followed by some dinner, God asked. Yes please, we begged.

Ah… the day was looking up. Nothing like a slightly warm shower after you’ve been caught in a cyclone.

Hungry now? God asked. Well, your boat is drifting. I made it drift. Go and sort it out.

Damn you God! Into our little dingy we went, to save our boat from drifting to shore. So much for that lovely post shower feeling. In it’s place, a salty residue only splashes of sea water can provide.

Up anchor. Move boat. Down anchor.

You’ve worked so hard, said God. Back to the island for dinner.

Soaking wet, Nicola and I ordered a tea. It tasted funny. Then we ordered curry. Then the rain came back. It came back so hard that even under the canopy of the restaurant, we still got rained on. We huddled under our waterproofs, no one even complaining.

‘I wonder what else could go wrong today?’ Dad asked. Hats off to him – it was 7pm and it was his first negative thought of the day. Nicola and I had been having – and saying – them since 6am. But Dad has a remarkable ability to stay upbeat. ‘What an adventure!’ he’ll usually say, come hell or high water. So, God, you knew you were on to a winner of a bad day when you had Dad complaining.

Exhausted and miserable, we headed back to the yacht. As we clambered aboard, we all hoped it was the end of God’s tests.

Opp, no, one more thing. I’m just going to whisk the hat off your head and drop it in the water, God said. Ha ha ha. Go fetch.

Cheers God. Watching my Dad lunge spread eagled into the dingy from the edge of the yacht in a vain attempt to rescue his hat, to the chorus of ‘’it’s not worth it!’ from his bemused crew, was a sight for sore eyes.

But rescue his hat he did. It may have been a bad day, but we managed to deliver Gareth to dry land, survive a cyclone, rescue a drifting yacht and a drifting hat – and all on an empty stomach.

Not bad for a bunch of Atheists.

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In God We Trust

After salt, comes pepper. After ying, comes yang. After a bad day, comes a good. A brilliant. A perfect.

The storms had passed, the sun had returned. And not just mediocre sun – I’m talking a cloudless, blue sky and a scorching, bright sunshine. From 7am. My back was bronzing before I’d even put the kettle on.

Up anchor and away – on to pastures new. Next stop, Ko Ngai – a tiny island populated by a few locals and a few resorts, one aptly names Paradise Resort.

We moored in a lagoon-like bay, bang in the middle of a long, sandy beach. We sandwiched ourselves between two fishing boots, the fishermen aboard waving and smiling as we arrived.

Nicola and I swam ashore, leaving the men to bring in the dinghy. We weren’t sure which beachside resort to eat at, but fortunately Eck, a committed and endearingly homosexual waiter was waiting for us. ‘Hello!’ he cheered. ‘Would you like a massage before you eat?’

Ah… it was as if the last two days of crew lossage and torrential rain hadn’t happened. Yes please, Mr Eck, we’d like a massage.

Nicola and I surveyed the massage menu, settling on a coffee bean scrub, which not only helps sun kissed (not burnt, thank you) skin recover, but also rids the body of toxins and cellulite. Not that we have any.

With skin softer than a babies bottom, we meandered over to some deck chairs and were given a banana smoothie. Surely, this day has peaked. How can it possibly get any better?

‘If you want lobster for lunch,’ Eck explained. ‘I’ll send someone out with the snorkel,’ he said, waving in the general direction of the sea. Crikey. The definition of fresh lobster.

After lunch, we took a long walk in the afternoon sun, stopping to watch crabs side walk into the sea. The sand was soft, the air was cool. We decided to squeeze in a quick snorkel before dinner. We took our dingy out to some nearby islands, looking for shallow reefs. We couldn’t find any, but someone, probably me, said the word ‘gin’ and we all decided an afternoon gin and tonic on the boat was a much more appealing idea anyway.

And that’s when it happened. Dolphins. Not one, but a whole school of the things. They were everywhere. It was magic. We cut the engine and watched in silence as their fins splashed out of the water.

The dolphins moved on and we returned to the Paso Doble. It hadn’t dragged. Not today.

The sun set as we sipped our gin and tonics and nibbled some pistachio nuts. God whacked some mesmerising cloud formations into the sky for good measure. It was a clear night – not even a hint of rain on the horizon. I slept outside, under the stars.

If God was trying to make up for all the drudgery of the previous day, it was working.

Am I forgiven? God Asked. Course you bloody are, God. Course you bloody are.

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Curl up and Dye

You know you’re having a bad day when your Google search is: ‘how do I get hair dye off my face.’

I was looking forward to tonight. I had the flat to myself and it’s my birthday tomorrow - two great reasons to be totally self indulgent, not that I need reasons. So I nipped to Asda after work, purchased a face mask and some hair dye, ready to have some proper home spa-ing. Only, I forgot to check for hair dye all over my face before I sat down for the 35 minutes it tells you to sit down for while the permanent hair dye works it’s magic on your hair.

It would be one thing to emerge the other side of my 35 minutes with a completely different barnet. But I dye my dark brown hair dark brown, so the fact I’m now battling streaks of brown across my face hardly seems worth it.

There’s a big slash of brown across my cheek and various speckles across my forehead. When my mum used to dye my hair I never had this problem, for she had eyes. And sense. Now I’m all alone, a grown up who is supposed to read instruction manuals, I look like I’m ready for war.

Which is what brought me to ask Google to save me. Please, Google, you can do it.

Obviously within 0.02 milliseconds I’d found a forum of like minded fools. Toothpaste, lemon juice, baking soda, cigarettes ashes, nail polish remover, a pumice stone, baby oil, various things I can only presume are American – like Magic Eraser, and finally, bleach.

I’m quite fond of the skin on my face so there are a few things I’m not prepared to try, and a few things I don’t have lying around the house. So I grab the toothpaste, nail polish remover and a pumice stone, opting not to smear my skin in baby oil for fear of acne, and avoiding the bleach beside the loo for fear of, well, it just doesn’t sound like something I want to put on my skin. Unless absolutely necessary…

For anyone out there who one day finds themselves in this predicament – don’t pumice your face. Unless you want streaky brown hair dye marks and a red rash, like what I’m now sporting.

Aware that time is of the essence and for every second I don’t get this stuff off my face, it’s settling down to it’s destiny as a 6-8 week permanent dye, I scrap the pumice and head for the nail varnish remover.

The forum would like me to remind you at this stage that lots of different suggestions actually have adverse reactions to each other and it’s not suggested to try one after the other in quick succession. Well, tough titties. Quick succession and mild desperation are all I have.

Nail polish remover stings like TCP on a grazed knee. As does lemon juice, but worse. Both of these might have been less painful if I hadn’t just pumiced my face red raw, I’ll never know. All I’ve got left now is toothpaste. I smear a load all over my face and asses the situation.

The sink is full of lemon slices and cotton wool drenched in all manner of household goods, my hair is the same colour as it was before I started this night of ‘relaxation’ but my face is now a fetching shade of red with bright white strips all over it. Throw in some blue and you’ve got yourself a walking Aquafresh advert, although perhaps not the type of advert that makes people want to rush out and buy Aquafresh.

Perhaps it was a combination of all the things I’ve just put my face through, perhaps just the toothpaste, but something worked. The streaky dark lines are fading. I’ve done two rounds of toothpaste smearing now and I reckon by tomorrow’s birthday catch-up with friends I’ll be able to hide what’s left of the war paint under some heavy duty Max Factor.

Crikey. What a night. I was going to blog about how much I like ambulances, but now it doesn’t seem relevant. Maybe next time. I do really like ambulances. More than hair dye, anyway.

ENDS

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Men are from Mars...

If I am to understand men, then I must first learn to think like a man. Men, they say, think about sex every seven seconds. I think about food every seven seconds. So, if I replace every thought I have of delicious curries and cakes with thoughts of boobies and bums, I can begin to understand what a man goes through every day.

I wake up thinking about food. I go to the gym so that I can eat more food. I look forward to breakfast. Then I’m sad because it’ll be at least another three hours before lunch. My favourite thing to do of an evening is go out for dinner. I like starters. I like main courses. I like pudding.

Now, let me swap all those thoughts for that of a man. Presumably.

I wake up thinking about sex. I go to the office every day, just so people don’t think I’m a weird pervert sitting in my porn-filled room all day. I look forward to seeing that cute girl in the office with the nice bum. Then I’m sad when she sits down because I know it might be a few hours before I see it again. My favourite thing to do of an evening is go to a bar and ogle pretty ladies. I like thin women. I like curvy women. I like all women.

Hmmm. We’re infinitely different, yet comparatively similar.

So now I’ve made this grand simile between men and women, I can claim to understand men. Therefore, I suppose I need to get my head around why the hell my boyfriend can waste six hours straight playing Grand Theft Auto.

What a stupid invention. I mean, who the hell – no, wait, stop. That’s not very understanding is it? Let me try again.

I arrive home and Gareth is playing this game. His eyes are glued to the screen and I doubt he’s blinked in an hour. I say hello, he grunts. I’d sooner win the lottery than get eye contact or even a kiss at this moment. I inquire as to his day. Another grunt.

In trying to understand this alpha male behaviour, as for the next hour all I can get out of him are expletives as he “takes down them bitches and ho’s”, I have to remain calm. More often than not during the course of learning to live with a partner, I have not remained calm, but rather had a mini tantrum and demanded that he turns the damn thing off or risk losing me forever.

But that only serves to make me feel like a nagging wife or mother, and that won’t do. Hence my venture to enter into his head space and understand him.

It happened quite by accident, my sudden understanding of all things Grand Theft Auto.

Gareth arrived home and I was watching Desperate Housewives. My eyes were glued to the screen, I doubt I’d blinked for an hour. Hello, he says, kneeling beside me. I grunt, tapping him gently on the head and turning the volume up slightly. He inquires as to my day.

‘Can we talk about this later?’ I ask, my eyes still on the impossibly skinny cast.

‘Of course we can,’ he says, probably smiling, I wasn’t looking. ‘As long as you remember this moment forever – remember that you are trying to watch something you enjoy and I’m trying to interrupt you, but you’d rather continue doing what you were doing before I walked in. I’ll be over here, not having a tantrum.’

Damn. That moment will stay with me forever. It'll haunt me forever. For now, not only do I understand Grand Theft Auto, I’ve got absolutely no legs to stand on when he has it on.

I blame those god damn impossibly skinny Desperate Housewives. I bet they don’t spend all day thinking about food.

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Castle Rascals

I love it when they get the weather wrong. Clouds and rain, they threatened, for Bank Holiday Monday. No, said Mother Nature, I shall grant you glorious sunshine and cloudless blue skies. Thank you, said we.

Off we sped to Castle Combe for some rambling. I’ve never been much of a rambler. I have some friends who ramble on every weekend. I’ve always been half jealous, half ‘no thanks, see you in the pub.’ But as I seem to be ageing with the speed of light, suddenly a six mile walkathon seems more appealing to me on my bank holiday than the bed – sofa –bed – sick bucket routine that used to be my hungover days.

That’s the old Kim. I even bought some rambling shoes to carry me through my six miles. We downloaded a map from the good people at Google and set off. First stop, the Castle Inn, where we might have started the day with a chilled and perfect pint of Stourpress cider. Well, old habits die hard…

In the wind pocket that was the pub garden, my skin warmed under the blazing sun. I had to keep reminding myself it was April. Who’d have thought it. With the cider giving us the energy we needed to commence adventure, and the pub garden beginning to fill, we set sail.

The ‘we’ in this tale, is my boyfriend Gareth, and I. Gareth held on to the map. With all his might. What is it with men and maps? I wasn’t even allowed to peek over his shoulder. He’d whip it out at every turning and junction, sneak and peek while turning it slightly away from my preying eyes, then demand ‘Over here, to the left,’ while jumping over a turn stile, the map sinking quickly back into his pocket.

I was quite happy to leave him fussing over his new GPS system and trying to plot our route on his phone while I breathed in the lovely country air and thought about how many calories I was burning just by plodding along. Loads, was the conclusion I came to.

After about 15 hours, Gareth’s GPS system told us we’d covered 1.6 miles. Only 4.4 to go! Twenty minutes later, it informed us we’d now covered 1.4 miles. Ok. We’re somehow managing to back track while only going forwards. Perhaps it’s time to put the GPS back in your pocket, Gareth, and just enjoy the scenery? He did, begrudgingly.

We passed couples with dogs. We were jealous. We passed eccentric country estates and cosy cottages. We were jealous. We passed over-energetic, sugar rushing children and exhausted parents. We were not jealous.

It was a blissful walk. Six miles flew by. The only bit I did not enjoy was the 100M or so you have to walk alongside a busy main road in the middle of the hike. But it soon passed and we were back in the glades and fields in no time.

Yes, Castle Combe is a tourist trap and yes, I did pay £3 for a lemonade when we got back to the village. It hurt. It hurt my wallet and my pride. We also splashed out on some overpriced scones (I’d burnt enough calories to justify it, I decided) and they were scrumdiddlyumptous.

I don’t think walking is something I could do every weekend, but on a day of sunshine such as this, I’d have been a fool not to. The views were stupendous, people actually said hello as we crossed paths, and I learned what a kissing gate was and what the history of the village was. (Something about red wool. I might not have been listening.) Plus, it was free. Which was lucky, as it meant I could afford the lemonade.

http://www.walkweb.org.uk/route_w2_information.htm

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The shame of fame

So, you’re famous. Well done you. Now, thousands of people are going to be watching your every move, idolising you, imitating you, loving you. With great power comes great responsibility. Spiderman could handle it. Can you, Paris Hilton?

You’d think famous people would take on this burden with a little more skill. And some do, I know. I won’t generalise too much as it isn’t fair on the Shakira’s of this world. Oh. You don’t know about Shakira? Not enough do. I’ll tell you later.

Most of the silly little famous people who deface our weekly magazines, our red top newspapers, our websites, our clothing chains, our coca cola cans, our billboards, our every breath, are not up to the job. What’s with Paris Hilton getting let out of jail early? That seemed a trifle unfair. She was sentenced to 45 days in prison for violating a probation order (for drink driving). Four days into her sentence, she was released for ‘medical reasons.’ That judge needed a good talking to. Paris Hilton should have served her time as a lesson to all her fans. If you get caught drink driving, you will have to do the time. Not, if you, mere mortal, get caught drink driving, you, mere mortal, will have to do the time, but I, princess of the parties, will not do the time for my crime because I didn’t really like jail very much. What kind of lesson is that?

Madonna’s latest adoption. We all expected her to waltz in there, grab Mercy, sling her in the back of the private jet and be off. Yes, she’s minted, and that would be a nice alternative for someone who otherwise faces a life of poverty and neglect. But Madonna, let’s not forget, is also over 50, always on tour, divorced and has three children by three fathers. If you took away the Madonna, would that divorced, 50 year old mother of three (by three different fathers) be able to bypass Malawi's strict adoption policies? Unlikely.

If your daily goings on are going to be splashed all over the tabloids for all to judge, then all the more reason for you to be made an example of. Young women can’t be seeing Paris Hilton ‘find god’ in jail, be let out early, then go back to her pink and fluffy life without a second thought to all the humanitarian schools she promised to open. It teaches young women that if they say ‘that’s hot’ and bleach their hair, they can get away with criminal activity.

Young women can’t be seeing Madonna decide it’s time to add to her brood, pick a country, pick a child, and expect the laws to be bent especially for her. It teaches young women that if you sell enough records, do enough yoga, scare enough people with your weird veins, you can have whatever you want. Disregard the law, folks, just get famous like me!

Good work on the stirling music career, Maddie, but if you could just abide by the same governmental laws as the rest of us, that’d teach young, impressionable fans that no amount of money can buy you a child. Good work on the, er, what do you do Paris? But if you could just do your paltry 45 days then it would teach young, impressionable fans that fame can’t buy you a get out of jail free card.

Shakira? Well, since you ask. Shakira is thought of as a princess in Colombia. Not a princess like Paris. She doesn’t turn up in a diamond encrusted car, wearing a diamond encrusted dress, to the opening of an envelope. Shakira is thought of as a princess because she has donated $40 million to the victims of natural disasters. In 1995 she founded the Pies Descalzos Foundation, opening schools for under privileged children. She’s helped thousands of children who couldn’t otherwise afford to get an education. On her 32nd birthday she opened a $6 million school in her hometown of Barranquilla.

For Paris Hilton’s 28th birthday, she cruised by private jet to Las Vegas. You ought to require a license to be famous. And Paris ought to be denied hers.

Shakira sings and dances for a living, but when she gets off a plane, people swoon because she saves lives. She embraces the great responsibility that comes with the great power of fame. Just like Spiderman.

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