OK, the cold war has been over for a long time now and so when one Russian (Victor) presents himself on my doorstep I should not have concerns about taped conversations or being observed by Interpol, again.....
Things as usual begin quite innocently, this was no exception....I went to pick up the laundry the other evening and didn't get home until day break, I could tell it was dawn as no-one paid any attention to my skimpy clothing: bikini (both pieces this time) under a loose, see through dress, with flat canvas boat shoes....perfect morning attire, but before.....
A couple of club members were partaking in a glass of fine home brew when I dropped in to collect weekly laundry from the pizza restaurant (where else would you collect laundry, after all I buy my alcohol at the petrol station and get shoes repaired down at the docks, this teraine is not conducive to stilettos and the local fisherman's got the best pair of pliers and is a deft hand at removing hooks so I guess it makes sense that he can remove the damaged heel end and put in a new one), anyway there I am collecting laundry and accept the invitation to join the party.
Well in between the laundry pick up and dawn we managed to write off a lot of vino, make our way across the road to the foreshore - this in itself is a fete as the current onslaught of Czech tourists are as driving savvy as Eskimo's are at sand castle building - on the other side there was music, there were lights and a few girating bodies one of which was Victor, the Russian, who's some where between 40 and 50 years of age, think of every cliche of Russian appearance and then imagine the opposite - you've got Victor - blonde; short (for this region anyway); average build, but with a definite Ruskie accent and lots of bling (which apparently he can well afford)....I'm fairly certain that the only half dozen words I spoke to Victor, in the 10 minutes we saw him were 'we should talk about business sometime' - I didn't know this was code for "come over for a quickie".
At about 2am the unexpected happened (as said I'm in minimal attire, equally due to lack of laundry and warm temperatures): the heavens opened and an onslaught of lightning & rain proceeded to entertain us, that's until the more sober of the party realised we were near water, surrounded by sand and seated on steel chairs - I'm guessing all conductive materials that are required for a mass people barbecue. Being a health conscious crew, we wanted to get out of harms way so we piled into the BeeMer (yes it's made of steel, but it's a moving target thus harder to hit, right) to go in search of the other club members in the old town. Well it was an open air cafe we took refuge (yes you can take refuge in open air...be patient), again the same sober wowsers insisted on pointing out the outdoor umbrellas on a rod of stainless steel (it would seem we could find said element faster than BHP's surveyors, I think the Chinese ought to be negotiating with our club rather Rio Tinto). The need to move due to health reasons was becoming the evenings theme and having found a few more folk to add to the impromptu party we proceeded over the bridge to a recently re-opened club where patrons were unaware of the deluge which had forced us into their midsts.
All must be well at the venue as the music and live feed from the local radio station didn't seem to present any short circuit issues in the minds of these fine publicans, the fact this renovated terrace now had a armoury of architecturally splendid steel piping surrounding its ancient stone walls didn't seem a reason for concern that it may conflict with the ongoing current creating flashes....so in the spirit of all things electric we proceeded to add friction to the dance floor and make puddles with our choice of liquid refreshment, I really do hope all the liquids were out of glasses, as we were all still quite wet it was hard to tell.....and there's only one version of 'pissed' that's acceptable.
Oh yeah.....Victor, he must have stopped smoking his particular blend (which he hides in the flower pots at home...it's not much of a hiding spot when everyone on the island knows), he managed to find my house the very next afternoon (no, I didn't give him these detail...well again everyone on the island knows about the foreign babe in the red house - damn, this must be another code - really need to work out the local speak).
Monday, July 13, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
It's a bird, it's a plane.....
There I was driving into town, to have the BeeMer washed and replenish my caffeine levels. At a snails pace I'm manouvering the more than narrow, serpentine roads on the island (there's also persistent on-coming traffic created by tourists who insist on raiding this piece of paradise with vehicles almost as big as mine and so this becomes a too close for comfort experience, my shoulder muscles tense; eyes bulge; little silent prayers are whispered as we defy space and driving skills) but I'm still thinking what a fabbo day I've had - there was sun and sea and I'll be getting ready to go to dinner soon....I'm on the home stretch, just before I hit the bridge and make it into the old town, well guess what lands on my windscreen? no, not another low flying insect (and what on earth do they eat to create that mustard yellow streak)....a man - a real life, full grown male.
I saw him, he saw me, I made eye contact, he took another look.....then as I got real close he falls onto the windscreen - glass is smashed, his nose is smashed, there's blood, I'm resisting the urge to turn on the wipers, there's a bit of wimpering, there's hyperventilating (that would be me). Ambulance is called, the locals all come out for a look (no-one's interested in getting involved, but all want to know what's going on and of course there'll be at least a dozen versions of who hit who and how); ice pack arrives from somewhere; his head is bent back to ease the blood flow, mine is between my knees (don't really have an excuse for it, but I only know one brace position even if I am a little late implementing it), the broken nose belongs to Mario a local who tells me he slipped when he saw me - not like that's news, there's been a few who have broken more than their noses in my presence.
The club members all converged and took over looking after one of their own, new windscreen had been ordered before the scene was cleared; BeeMer was moved into a drive way allowing two way traffic to share the single lane again; S series guy cancelled the next two appointments and started making his way to the island, he also contacted the local police (wonder if they're keeping a record of this families vehicular challenges....never fear, this can also be taken care of).
The current take on the event is that men are falling out of the sky for Romy....technically this may be true, but I'd prefer they didn't arrive as damaged goods.
Had to make my way to the insurance assessor with GQ model.....S series guy insisted I have company (he'd be wiser to give Boris this chore)....riotous fun filling out the form when explaining the face planting incident and then the sketch that needed to go with this - we couldn't resist putting a few of the bugs with names and addresses as witnesses.
I saw him, he saw me, I made eye contact, he took another look.....then as I got real close he falls onto the windscreen - glass is smashed, his nose is smashed, there's blood, I'm resisting the urge to turn on the wipers, there's a bit of wimpering, there's hyperventilating (that would be me). Ambulance is called, the locals all come out for a look (no-one's interested in getting involved, but all want to know what's going on and of course there'll be at least a dozen versions of who hit who and how); ice pack arrives from somewhere; his head is bent back to ease the blood flow, mine is between my knees (don't really have an excuse for it, but I only know one brace position even if I am a little late implementing it), the broken nose belongs to Mario a local who tells me he slipped when he saw me - not like that's news, there's been a few who have broken more than their noses in my presence.
The club members all converged and took over looking after one of their own, new windscreen had been ordered before the scene was cleared; BeeMer was moved into a drive way allowing two way traffic to share the single lane again; S series guy cancelled the next two appointments and started making his way to the island, he also contacted the local police (wonder if they're keeping a record of this families vehicular challenges....never fear, this can also be taken care of).
The current take on the event is that men are falling out of the sky for Romy....technically this may be true, but I'd prefer they didn't arrive as damaged goods.
Had to make my way to the insurance assessor with GQ model.....S series guy insisted I have company (he'd be wiser to give Boris this chore)....riotous fun filling out the form when explaining the face planting incident and then the sketch that needed to go with this - we couldn't resist putting a few of the bugs with names and addresses as witnesses.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Treading Water
Had the toughest day you can imagine....island paradise living can have it's down side....here goes: there I was a little lost for company, S series guy is out on location; all club members are with meaningful work or wife commitments. Then during one midnight phone call, S series guy, suggests his recently uni graduated nephew could keep me company for a day or two or whatever time frame I would like...."go for a coffee"; "take the boat island hopping"; "go dancing"......
Ok I thought, a bit of intellectual chatter with uni geek and he's bound to know how to apply sun-screen right. What turns up at my door is a GQ magazine model (six foot of course, perfect sun tanned olive skin, short black cropped hair, crooked smile, perfect white teeth, hazel eyes, defined chest with only a smattering of hair). Don't quite know what to do with him (well I do, but being the clear thinker that I am this was not an option), so off we go for a swim in the ocean keeping at least 3 meters of cool Adriatic water between us at all times, when it got all too hot (median temp was 30, but a lot hotter lying side by side at the waters edge) it was back to the pool at my place.....as the pool is only 3 meters wide that new rule was hard to keep, so I had to get out otherwise "Complications" with a capital Trouble.
So there I was sitting on the pools edge, having a glass of vino, while GQ model sips his beer, splashes (he's in his mid-twenties, they splash) around a little and asks whether I want to do anything else, now who's looking at who's chest.....like my mind wasn't exploding already!!!!! Deep breath, look away NOW - oh man, oh man..... I had to send this piece of delight home untouched - well physically, didn't get a wink of sleep all night with the thousand and one scenarious playing in my head, and you think it's easy being me - it took 10 tea bags to get rid of the dark circles under my eyes and several cold showers just to be able to deal with breakfast.
Not pretending to have titanic strength, thus currently I'm avoiding returning phone calls for a replay until I work out how to accidentally cut the fuel line on the speed boat when we go for the suggested midnight swim.
Ok I thought, a bit of intellectual chatter with uni geek and he's bound to know how to apply sun-screen right. What turns up at my door is a GQ magazine model (six foot of course, perfect sun tanned olive skin, short black cropped hair, crooked smile, perfect white teeth, hazel eyes, defined chest with only a smattering of hair). Don't quite know what to do with him (well I do, but being the clear thinker that I am this was not an option), so off we go for a swim in the ocean keeping at least 3 meters of cool Adriatic water between us at all times, when it got all too hot (median temp was 30, but a lot hotter lying side by side at the waters edge) it was back to the pool at my place.....as the pool is only 3 meters wide that new rule was hard to keep, so I had to get out otherwise "Complications" with a capital Trouble.
So there I was sitting on the pools edge, having a glass of vino, while GQ model sips his beer, splashes (he's in his mid-twenties, they splash) around a little and asks whether I want to do anything else, now who's looking at who's chest.....like my mind wasn't exploding already!!!!! Deep breath, look away NOW - oh man, oh man..... I had to send this piece of delight home untouched - well physically, didn't get a wink of sleep all night with the thousand and one scenarious playing in my head, and you think it's easy being me - it took 10 tea bags to get rid of the dark circles under my eyes and several cold showers just to be able to deal with breakfast.
Not pretending to have titanic strength, thus currently I'm avoiding returning phone calls for a replay until I work out how to accidentally cut the fuel line on the speed boat when we go for the suggested midnight swim.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Into the abyss
Ok, we all know I'm not into anything remotely like mountaineering and that I have a preference for high-heels... so when the
latest attraction (S series guy) decides to take me to his place, after some culinary delights at one of those hidden tourist free establishments that even the restauranteur wants to keep quiet about - perfect rendezvous for those royal and notorious, I did not expect to get a nose bleed on the descent to his quarters, usually this only occurs at the mention of 'mamma' or 'we're out of champers'
Well it's all worth it when we finally arrive - the main terrace is hanging over a small pebble beach with unobstructed view of several adjacent islands, but personally I think absailing would have been easier than the seated position (it may be a big Mercedes but that just means you drop faster, according to the Newton dude and his whole performance with an apple). Well there you have it one Duchess with both feet planted trying to break through the floor boards of said death trap...must say the view was spectacular and if I ever have a suicide wish this will be it - straight off the cliff into silk black waters highlighted by a silver moon and surrounded by dead animal skin and mahogany....what were Thelma & Louise thinking with the canyon thing and not taking a man with them, this is definitely a nicer way to go...must mention it to the movie directors for the remake.
Now as the decerning diva that I am, I thought we'd get down to the real reason we were there - as though the hot-tub didn't give it away - when onto romantic scene the toothless caretaker neighbour, Boris, with bad breath or foot odour (don't want to consider it could be both), smile emitting from a red glowing, untended stubbled, head that looks like it's planted itself against the cliff face a few times in the past, but alas, he is carrying a clear liquid and has dropped in to toast some 'Saints' day...well, thinking it could be CoCo's birthday, I proceed to raise glasses with Boris and S series guy, at this stage it would have been a good idea to remove sandals but nooooo .... wasn't concerned and the lights of the island opposite were dazzling me into a sense of carefree-ness.
Hours later, after extracting myself from jacuzzi, I peeled each sandal strap from my water logged feet, the indentation would have made a road worthy Michelin tyre look bald. Giving out a huge yelp as the blood flowed back through the veins and into compressed toes. There may have been a little haste in getting on with the evening once Boris had departed with his jet fuel concoction.
latest attraction (S series guy) decides to take me to his place, after some culinary delights at one of those hidden tourist free establishments that even the restauranteur wants to keep quiet about - perfect rendezvous for those royal and notorious, I did not expect to get a nose bleed on the descent to his quarters, usually this only occurs at the mention of 'mamma' or 'we're out of champers'
Well it's all worth it when we finally arrive - the main terrace is hanging over a small pebble beach with unobstructed view of several adjacent islands, but personally I think absailing would have been easier than the seated position (it may be a big Mercedes but that just means you drop faster, according to the Newton dude and his whole performance with an apple). Well there you have it one Duchess with both feet planted trying to break through the floor boards of said death trap...must say the view was spectacular and if I ever have a suicide wish this will be it - straight off the cliff into silk black waters highlighted by a silver moon and surrounded by dead animal skin and mahogany....what were Thelma & Louise thinking with the canyon thing and not taking a man with them, this is definitely a nicer way to go...must mention it to the movie directors for the remake.
Now as the decerning diva that I am, I thought we'd get down to the real reason we were there - as though the hot-tub didn't give it away - when onto romantic scene the toothless caretaker neighbour, Boris, with bad breath or foot odour (don't want to consider it could be both), smile emitting from a red glowing, untended stubbled, head that looks like it's planted itself against the cliff face a few times in the past, but alas, he is carrying a clear liquid and has dropped in to toast some 'Saints' day...well, thinking it could be CoCo's birthday, I proceed to raise glasses with Boris and S series guy, at this stage it would have been a good idea to remove sandals but nooooo .... wasn't concerned and the lights of the island opposite were dazzling me into a sense of carefree-ness.
Hours later, after extracting myself from jacuzzi, I peeled each sandal strap from my water logged feet, the indentation would have made a road worthy Michelin tyre look bald. Giving out a huge yelp as the blood flowed back through the veins and into compressed toes. There may have been a little haste in getting on with the evening once Boris had departed with his jet fuel concoction.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Family feast
Made a quick pit stop to visit relatives ( it was Easter time and that means copious quantities of home made food including cake and more cake) but really, thank goodness for living aunts and uncles, unfortunately had to visit a few dead ones in the local crematorium to appease the breathing, oh well what's a couple of posies and pretending to talk with the dead - John Edwards does it all the time and I got the best cuts of roast for my troubles.
Met my maternal grandmother, was having a great time with her even though I had to re-introduce myself every time I left the
room.....poor babe is losing it big time, and with the regular indulgence of champers I was ducking into the lav on a regular basis, so this became an hourly event, her consistent comment of "yes dear, why didn't anyone tell me you were coming" was only bettered when I told her I was her granddaughter Romy, she was stupified to see me so big for a six year old and advised that I'd better watch my diet as big bones were common in our family - now she tells me.
Gran's also a great cover, her champagne glass was depleting as quickly as mine, (a slight of hand was become a new skill - well you remember the broken thumb - it needed a bit of physiotheraphy and you know that I wouldn't want to go against doc's instructions)????????? Gran and I were on the same wave-length by the second bottle of champagne and she was also convinced that every relo on the planet had visited.....well if I have to make an introduction each time I leave her eye-sight I may as well tell her I'm another cousin; niece; the nephew who went off to Canada and was never heard from again and broke his mothers heart.
Apparently I'm not the only cause for the drinks cabinet to be locked, Gran has taken to having a little 'rakia' shot or two or three in the afternoon after she's been given her multitude of medicines, personally was hoping to join the old girl thinking she'll be up for a game of "do you remember this cocktail..." he he he, I could always blame it on 'the bitch who stole uncle Miko from aunty Vera.
Met my maternal grandmother, was having a great time with her even though I had to re-introduce myself every time I left the
room.....poor babe is losing it big time, and with the regular indulgence of champers I was ducking into the lav on a regular basis, so this became an hourly event, her consistent comment of "yes dear, why didn't anyone tell me you were coming" was only bettered when I told her I was her granddaughter Romy, she was stupified to see me so big for a six year old and advised that I'd better watch my diet as big bones were common in our family - now she tells me.
Gran's also a great cover, her champagne glass was depleting as quickly as mine, (a slight of hand was become a new skill - well you remember the broken thumb - it needed a bit of physiotheraphy and you know that I wouldn't want to go against doc's instructions)????????? Gran and I were on the same wave-length by the second bottle of champagne and she was also convinced that every relo on the planet had visited.....well if I have to make an introduction each time I leave her eye-sight I may as well tell her I'm another cousin; niece; the nephew who went off to Canada and was never heard from again and broke his mothers heart.
Apparently I'm not the only cause for the drinks cabinet to be locked, Gran has taken to having a little 'rakia' shot or two or three in the afternoon after she's been given her multitude of medicines, personally was hoping to join the old girl thinking she'll be up for a game of "do you remember this cocktail..." he he he, I could always blame it on 'the bitch who stole uncle Miko from aunty Vera.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
And Duchess makes Seven
Forced out of bed by a persistent blazing sun after having forgotten to close drapes....didn't really notice them at 3am when I made it home, just damn glad I didn't use the side door where the pool is - well with the full moon illuminating the water and my penchant for all things shiny there would have gone another perfectly good crochet bikini - the sort that's intolerant to moisture and yes I know bikini wearing is a little obscene at this tender hour...well before day break is always regarded as inappropriate home arriving time and thus the bikini maybe a little crass so next time I'lI wait for the rising sun and pretend to be a wake-boarding freak...well we all know how hind-sight works, however, I arrived straight from the beach and my new friends are all men and they didn't seem to mind my lack of attire. Its Monday or Wednesday or some such recurring event and no-one on the island takes these days seriously, tried explaining the Friday or Saturday phenomenum of party night in other parts of the world, and was basically met with blank non-comprehending stares and questions of why the other 5 nights were deemed unworthy of caraf refilling ceremonies - couldn't quite come up with a decent explanation so we all agreed I should convert now to the islands concept of entertainment 7 nights a week, wooahoo.
As I found myself with pleasant company, as mentioned all male, all post puberty and none seem to have had any bodily parts (namely hips) replaced with titanium, coupled with my ability to maintain vino quota and a general lack of interest in their nuptual commitments - got me voted into the all boys team. So this Saturday I'm spending in the company of six guys at a function held at a restaurant owned by Don who's 6 foot tall (well they're all within this vicinity, infact I think the whole country is inhabited by amazonians, thus anyone below 5 foot 6 inches is encouraged to join the circus), fashionably bald, lean, tanned, dropped by at 2am after excusing himself from the marital bed by professing to assist his mates with much needed tobacco, a plausible excuse with the prevalence of this habit in these waters and can you imagine how tall they'd grown without growth stunting nicotine .... why the haste, well, truth be told he actually heard there was a new club member wearing a bikini.
Then there's Marko, yes 6 foot plus, former yachting champ (self explanatory physical attributes), who currently is wearing a plaster cast due to torn archilles , this disability wasn't a problem the other night, apart from manouvering down the spiral staircase, hey not my doing to put the bedroom on the 3rd floor, and he did manage to make it upstairs unassisted.
Matte, who is border line circus material (due to height limitations), but he redeems himself with knowledge in all local obscure things: eg. hidden restaurants that are accessible only by boat and not a Russian tourist in sight; all things bizaar or impossible to obtain are Matte's forte, being the local tourist information agent the freebies are also most welcome.
Number four in the Duchess's new troupe is Kane, the court jester with better clothes and physique, the epitomy of mediterranean handsomeness - tall, of course; dark with just a hint of grey; shoulders that take a full arm span (yes, I actually did this behind his back - wanted to make sure I wasn't imagining things and I'm sure this isn't the last "behind his back" stunt).
The quietest of the team is Mick, fairer than the others, not quite blonde, not circus material; speaks quietly so I have to lean in real close to hear him (I'm thinking dark horse...hmmmm).
Finally there's Peter, shadow creating height; I couldn't jump high enough to see width of shoulder span but I'm guessing size 15 shoes and hands that would dwarf a basketball...well we hope we're not going to be disappointed don't we.
Then there's some of you who may be wondering where's S series guy - gone to make some commercial decisions, I'm sure if it's important I'll get to read about it in tomorrows tabloid or a future court report.
As I found myself with pleasant company, as mentioned all male, all post puberty and none seem to have had any bodily parts (namely hips) replaced with titanium, coupled with my ability to maintain vino quota and a general lack of interest in their nuptual commitments - got me voted into the all boys team. So this Saturday I'm spending in the company of six guys at a function held at a restaurant owned by Don who's 6 foot tall (well they're all within this vicinity, infact I think the whole country is inhabited by amazonians, thus anyone below 5 foot 6 inches is encouraged to join the circus), fashionably bald, lean, tanned, dropped by at 2am after excusing himself from the marital bed by professing to assist his mates with much needed tobacco, a plausible excuse with the prevalence of this habit in these waters and can you imagine how tall they'd grown without growth stunting nicotine .... why the haste, well, truth be told he actually heard there was a new club member wearing a bikini.
Then there's Marko, yes 6 foot plus, former yachting champ (self explanatory physical attributes), who currently is wearing a plaster cast due to torn archilles , this disability wasn't a problem the other night, apart from manouvering down the spiral staircase, hey not my doing to put the bedroom on the 3rd floor, and he did manage to make it upstairs unassisted.
Matte, who is border line circus material (due to height limitations), but he redeems himself with knowledge in all local obscure things: eg. hidden restaurants that are accessible only by boat and not a Russian tourist in sight; all things bizaar or impossible to obtain are Matte's forte, being the local tourist information agent the freebies are also most welcome.
Number four in the Duchess's new troupe is Kane, the court jester with better clothes and physique, the epitomy of mediterranean handsomeness - tall, of course; dark with just a hint of grey; shoulders that take a full arm span (yes, I actually did this behind his back - wanted to make sure I wasn't imagining things and I'm sure this isn't the last "behind his back" stunt).
The quietest of the team is Mick, fairer than the others, not quite blonde, not circus material; speaks quietly so I have to lean in real close to hear him (I'm thinking dark horse...hmmmm).
Finally there's Peter, shadow creating height; I couldn't jump high enough to see width of shoulder span but I'm guessing size 15 shoes and hands that would dwarf a basketball...well we hope we're not going to be disappointed don't we.
Then there's some of you who may be wondering where's S series guy - gone to make some commercial decisions, I'm sure if it's important I'll get to read about it in tomorrows tabloid or a future court report.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Deja Vu
A month or so ago I had Daddy in town....aaahhhhaaaaa....(this basically means no sex for weeeeeeeeks, well 2 ok), he's here for 2 days and has a turn (problem heart, but don't worrry the old war horse will out live us all, this is the same man who managed to destroy a mega four wheel drive vehicle (F150 to those knowledgable in ecologically unfiendly vices) by running it off the road - being thrown through the back window, landing in the overturned tray, be buried, dig his way out and summon help at 4am and then the following day yours truly making a visit, with a not insubstantial cash component in hand, to local constabulary......due to potential alcohol related technicalities.
Anyway, the old man was not feeling well for days, but won't hear about seeing a medical practitioner...well if he won't go to a clinician then I'm off to one....... whilst I'm having my nails done I receive a call saying "grandad" wants to be taken into hospital - aaaaahhhaaaa, this must be serious, my nails haven't had their top-coat yet, bugger....was hoping for a bikini-wax as well, but now that'll have to wait, won't it.....not a prob there's very little disrobing to be done anyway.
Hours later visiting newly constructed hospital and after all manner of test - think there was even a gynaecological examination listed, well we are foreigners with travel insurance, we're all good to go home with a good stash of happy pills (I'm sure Dad doesn't need them all).
Well it's a few hours later, there's a little deja vu - we're back in the same said hospital with man-child (visiting son) having written off a 3 day old car and causing the event of the year in this sleepy hollow kind of town, as the Audi is the biggest thing to come off the motor way since a bridal party tried getting a stretch limo down these same goat tracks - apparently getting bogged and creating the first traffic-jam in the towns history. I would not be surprised that this little mishap makes it into local folklore ..... marking the day the crazy foreigners invaded but were defeated by crater sized pot-holes.
Our Country Club (aka the hospital), could be adding a new wing dedicated to the Duchess foundation with this many donations - cash only due to our lack of local socialist system standing-(oh bugger, another insurance company that's going to love us), however, as Premier club members we were entitled and received undivided attention from the local law enforcement team (both of them came out for this event) they were interested in man-childs well being, that is until the blood report verified lack of substance abuse, then without further incriminating evidence requiring shredding and thus eliminating need to exchange further currencies in any denomination we could leave to tend to man-child's heavily bruised ego. Good thing I like train travel.
Anyway, the old man was not feeling well for days, but won't hear about seeing a medical practitioner...well if he won't go to a clinician then I'm off to one....... whilst I'm having my nails done I receive a call saying "grandad" wants to be taken into hospital - aaaaahhhaaaa, this must be serious, my nails haven't had their top-coat yet, bugger....was hoping for a bikini-wax as well, but now that'll have to wait, won't it.....not a prob there's very little disrobing to be done anyway.
Hours later visiting newly constructed hospital and after all manner of test - think there was even a gynaecological examination listed, well we are foreigners with travel insurance, we're all good to go home with a good stash of happy pills (I'm sure Dad doesn't need them all).
Well it's a few hours later, there's a little deja vu - we're back in the same said hospital with man-child (visiting son) having written off a 3 day old car and causing the event of the year in this sleepy hollow kind of town, as the Audi is the biggest thing to come off the motor way since a bridal party tried getting a stretch limo down these same goat tracks - apparently getting bogged and creating the first traffic-jam in the towns history. I would not be surprised that this little mishap makes it into local folklore ..... marking the day the crazy foreigners invaded but were defeated by crater sized pot-holes.
Our Country Club (aka the hospital), could be adding a new wing dedicated to the Duchess foundation with this many donations - cash only due to our lack of local socialist system standing-(oh bugger, another insurance company that's going to love us), however, as Premier club members we were entitled and received undivided attention from the local law enforcement team (both of them came out for this event) they were interested in man-childs well being, that is until the blood report verified lack of substance abuse, then without further incriminating evidence requiring shredding and thus eliminating need to exchange further currencies in any denomination we could leave to tend to man-child's heavily bruised ego. Good thing I like train travel.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
By association
S series guy and I are enjoying mutual company, although he has warned if I googled him there may be an incident or two which he would like to explain - no need, google was done within 24 hours of first meeting - what can I say.... a girl needs to know all axe weilding psychos, and we all know my capacity for attracting such quality suitors. Well reading the googled info I got bored with the same old indictements - just different dates - after all there were about a dozen pages (is that a lot)?? and no beauty tips but I must say S series guy always wore a really nice suit in the press pics and he didn't tell me he was Balkan (where the heck is that & could there be a ceremonial role for Duchess)?
I do hope S series guy has a bit of variety to his repetoir because this could be fun and finished very soon and really what's to explain the court reports are quite detailed (he allegedly said; was allegedly seen in the company of....; has been know to.... blah blah blah)....ok, making mental note to contact my legal representation regarding association laws...bugger, just when I thought I was in for a quiet Summer and imagined floating around local waters with not much to think about apart from eliminating tan lines and matching my sarong to the ever diminishing bikini top - yes, got the crocheted one wet after losing hold of it while on the back of jet ski (had to be removed as it was getting caught in S series guys gold chains).
I do hope S series guy has a bit of variety to his repetoir because this could be fun and finished very soon and really what's to explain the court reports are quite detailed (he allegedly said; was allegedly seen in the company of....; has been know to.... blah blah blah)....ok, making mental note to contact my legal representation regarding association laws...bugger, just when I thought I was in for a quiet Summer and imagined floating around local waters with not much to think about apart from eliminating tan lines and matching my sarong to the ever diminishing bikini top - yes, got the crocheted one wet after losing hold of it while on the back of jet ski (had to be removed as it was getting caught in S series guys gold chains).
Island Living
Well it´s been a while...so hold on for the complete update...it may take a few weeks with all that's gone on, so let's start with now and I'll back track until we get all the interesting stuff sorted:
Sitting on a balcony overlooking a fabulous inlet thats located on the Adriatic, sun is settling over a perfect marine blue harbour, only the traditional small fishing boats fit (they look fabulous, but don't get too close - phew, stench city, so lets leave them down there in the picture perfect scene....tried checking out the fishermen too, lets just say 'they wear the same cologne as their trusty vessels' and their ain't nothing remotely romantic about scent of octapus); the lights of the village are justing starting to shine 'mood lighting' (Revlon should come out with a portable light defuser, rather than bull shitting us with anti-wrinkle creams that even polyfiller would have a hard time filling). So you see I've managed to secure a new home for the Summer where the locals don't accept outsiders except for the 3 months during holiday season, when they proceed to make an annual living from the proceeds of these few weeks, this being their only consolation for giving up paradise to overweight, 3 sizes too small swim suit wearing, pastie, waddling foreigners. My request for a 4 month rental was cause for a communal meeting, almost got vetoed, but new best friend 'S Series' guy (keep reading) came to the rescue.
Oh yeah, lets get back to fabbo new home, did I tell you it has a pool - looking forward to the pool boys visit, just hope it's not a part time job and he fills his days with fishing - ok, ok, the house: has rooms for all incoming guests, mod cons, did I mention pool...well as usual it wasn't easy to come by this little treasure, however, with the stubborness of a mule (one with pedigree of course) it was possible to manouver into this property before the over-cashed Russians got a wiff, is there really that much money in radio activity?
There I was sitting at the hairdressers, where as usual all manner of grievances and mischief was being devulged while the shearing, colouring and blow waving process was taking place, when to my amazement hairdresser 'Anita' pipes up that she has a boyfriend (feeling rather piffed, that it's Saturday and yours truly is in a 5 star hotel without any prospects while the stylist has not only a date but a boyfriend...and why on earth would I want to know this? - alright, patience I said to myself, after all she's holding the success of over/under bleached mane and the fact she was listening was truly a new experience as I hadn't realized these professionals actually had hearing devices called ears, really didn't even believe my marriage counsellor was listening, after all the divorce was a success). Well, this said boyfriend is a real estate agent and maybe able to help out - forge on I say..sooo, the very next day we go house hunting, personally she can keep the boyfriend and his idea of what Duchess is prepared to live in, but alas half way through the day at another not perfect location I was introduced to the developer of said site - hello, Hello, HELLO - just saw the S series Mercedes and no wedding band. Well I had to knock back his property as being inadequate (never was very tactful when it came to such situations and perhaps saying ''I just don't feel it'' wasn't quite the done thing), but this did not deter S series guy, who thinks he has something which could be right for me and would I like to see it, well sunshine let's do dinner first...come on it's been weeks since Prague and then there was gran and a visit from dad and too much champers (read on it will all make sense).
Series S guy has got me pegged and thus here I am ensconsed in a fabbo pad...oh the really good part is he's loaned me a car (future story of how my newly acquired 3 day old car was written off....German insurance company not happy but Audi dealer looking for a bonus month) - this car loan started with a black Porsche Cayenne that had to be sent back, because the island's a little too small, the roads tighter than Pamela Andersons bra, not to mention the constant ringing of the technology ''too close'' alarms on the car which started to sound like an ice-cream van on steriods.....sooo, now I'm commuting in a BeeMer (5 series), yeah, I know, it aint much smaller, but I got rid of the local teenagers thinking they could score from me.
Sitting on a balcony overlooking a fabulous inlet thats located on the Adriatic, sun is settling over a perfect marine blue harbour, only the traditional small fishing boats fit (they look fabulous, but don't get too close - phew, stench city, so lets leave them down there in the picture perfect scene....tried checking out the fishermen too, lets just say 'they wear the same cologne as their trusty vessels' and their ain't nothing remotely romantic about scent of octapus); the lights of the village are justing starting to shine 'mood lighting' (Revlon should come out with a portable light defuser, rather than bull shitting us with anti-wrinkle creams that even polyfiller would have a hard time filling). So you see I've managed to secure a new home for the Summer where the locals don't accept outsiders except for the 3 months during holiday season, when they proceed to make an annual living from the proceeds of these few weeks, this being their only consolation for giving up paradise to overweight, 3 sizes too small swim suit wearing, pastie, waddling foreigners. My request for a 4 month rental was cause for a communal meeting, almost got vetoed, but new best friend 'S Series' guy (keep reading) came to the rescue.
Oh yeah, lets get back to fabbo new home, did I tell you it has a pool - looking forward to the pool boys visit, just hope it's not a part time job and he fills his days with fishing - ok, ok, the house: has rooms for all incoming guests, mod cons, did I mention pool...well as usual it wasn't easy to come by this little treasure, however, with the stubborness of a mule (one with pedigree of course) it was possible to manouver into this property before the over-cashed Russians got a wiff, is there really that much money in radio activity?
There I was sitting at the hairdressers, where as usual all manner of grievances and mischief was being devulged while the shearing, colouring and blow waving process was taking place, when to my amazement hairdresser 'Anita' pipes up that she has a boyfriend (feeling rather piffed, that it's Saturday and yours truly is in a 5 star hotel without any prospects while the stylist has not only a date but a boyfriend...and why on earth would I want to know this? - alright, patience I said to myself, after all she's holding the success of over/under bleached mane and the fact she was listening was truly a new experience as I hadn't realized these professionals actually had hearing devices called ears, really didn't even believe my marriage counsellor was listening, after all the divorce was a success). Well, this said boyfriend is a real estate agent and maybe able to help out - forge on I say..sooo, the very next day we go house hunting, personally she can keep the boyfriend and his idea of what Duchess is prepared to live in, but alas half way through the day at another not perfect location I was introduced to the developer of said site - hello, Hello, HELLO - just saw the S series Mercedes and no wedding band. Well I had to knock back his property as being inadequate (never was very tactful when it came to such situations and perhaps saying ''I just don't feel it'' wasn't quite the done thing), but this did not deter S series guy, who thinks he has something which could be right for me and would I like to see it, well sunshine let's do dinner first...come on it's been weeks since Prague and then there was gran and a visit from dad and too much champers (read on it will all make sense).
Series S guy has got me pegged and thus here I am ensconsed in a fabbo pad...oh the really good part is he's loaned me a car (future story of how my newly acquired 3 day old car was written off....German insurance company not happy but Audi dealer looking for a bonus month) - this car loan started with a black Porsche Cayenne that had to be sent back, because the island's a little too small, the roads tighter than Pamela Andersons bra, not to mention the constant ringing of the technology ''too close'' alarms on the car which started to sound like an ice-cream van on steriods.....sooo, now I'm commuting in a BeeMer (5 series), yeah, I know, it aint much smaller, but I got rid of the local teenagers thinking they could score from me.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Transcontinental Express
I have discovered another mode of transport not previously sampled:
Trains with first class cabins - do not be fooled that they're all the same, these little gems keep themselves planted on terra firma while rocketing through the country side unobstructed (the occassional carnage doesn't really count in the scheme of things, what's a couple of slow moving Fiats...really who's going to miss them). You get a hostess who offers up refreshments (and vodka straight is understood on multi-national lines, although I've found the central Slavics the most efficient with replenishing and they even offer drinking competitions....not quite sure why these had to be conducted while squatting behind the counter but hey when in Rome, figured it has something to do with occupational health & safety, after all has anyone ever suffered head trauma when they fall from a crouching tiger position). So there I go being transported at 200km per hour through foreign fields with a clear beveridge and no air-turbulence - is this heaven in a tin-can or what!!
I must confess there are some dangers to this mode of transport and not wanting to lose any more drinking companions I'll offer up a word of warning to those who have a nicotine habit - these dear friends (it was their turn to pay for the next round of vodka slammers) were a little slow. Due to smoking restrictions on board trains - these fellow commuters are forced to make a dash onto the platform (...no, this wasn't the danger, the train was stationary at the time) for a few quick puffs, when their good sense to hop back on and their ennibriated self argued that "the train can't possibly leave without them" - well what can one do except offer a royal wave as they became a distant blurr.
As there's usually a fresh batch of commuters this is only a temporary grieving period while the newbies are inducted into the latest game of 'who can down the most 'shots' before the train hits optimum speed', so far a mountain of a guy from Iceland or some remote Island (Vodka accents are hard to decipher) is the reigning champion and the more liquid refreshment I indulge the more tempeted I am to retrieve my tweezers and see if I can remove the forest of eye-brow hair that's threatening to bury his view completely, although the idea of at least making a central part from his forehead to his nose would be a start.
Now where's the porter or the old lady that's been glaring at me since I tried sitting down between her and the window, she really didn't need the whole seat to herself - well she was snoring and fogging up the glass anyway.
Trains with first class cabins - do not be fooled that they're all the same, these little gems keep themselves planted on terra firma while rocketing through the country side unobstructed (the occassional carnage doesn't really count in the scheme of things, what's a couple of slow moving Fiats...really who's going to miss them). You get a hostess who offers up refreshments (and vodka straight is understood on multi-national lines, although I've found the central Slavics the most efficient with replenishing and they even offer drinking competitions....not quite sure why these had to be conducted while squatting behind the counter but hey when in Rome, figured it has something to do with occupational health & safety, after all has anyone ever suffered head trauma when they fall from a crouching tiger position). So there I go being transported at 200km per hour through foreign fields with a clear beveridge and no air-turbulence - is this heaven in a tin-can or what!!
I must confess there are some dangers to this mode of transport and not wanting to lose any more drinking companions I'll offer up a word of warning to those who have a nicotine habit - these dear friends (it was their turn to pay for the next round of vodka slammers) were a little slow. Due to smoking restrictions on board trains - these fellow commuters are forced to make a dash onto the platform (...no, this wasn't the danger, the train was stationary at the time) for a few quick puffs, when their good sense to hop back on and their ennibriated self argued that "the train can't possibly leave without them" - well what can one do except offer a royal wave as they became a distant blurr.
As there's usually a fresh batch of commuters this is only a temporary grieving period while the newbies are inducted into the latest game of 'who can down the most 'shots' before the train hits optimum speed', so far a mountain of a guy from Iceland or some remote Island (Vodka accents are hard to decipher) is the reigning champion and the more liquid refreshment I indulge the more tempeted I am to retrieve my tweezers and see if I can remove the forest of eye-brow hair that's threatening to bury his view completely, although the idea of at least making a central part from his forehead to his nose would be a start.
Now where's the porter or the old lady that's been glaring at me since I tried sitting down between her and the window, she really didn't need the whole seat to herself - well she was snoring and fogging up the glass anyway.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Ole Ole .. Barcelona
Find myself without play friends, tragic really when those around you must do mundane things like work for a living, and thus I decide to take a quick reconnosence trip to Spain check out what's on offer West of the border.
Before I even get out of the airport there seems to be a hold up...9pm flight is delayed for two hours, this I find out after going through security and having to relinquish my bottled water, so plans of arriving in Barcelona city and sitting down to a very 'el Spaniol' meal at mid-night was out the window before I even got near the place...and there were no meals to be had in departures at this hour, which was a shame as it's actually quite a good option when you want to drop a kilo or two, a serve of festering salmonella from the bay-marees guarantees a better flush to the system than colonic irrigation and a lot cheaper but perhaps no less private as the sounds emitting can be quite startling to oneself let alone to those packed in like sardines on a boeing flight - good idea to let the air-crew know what's going on as you don't want to be the cause of crash positions being taken and air-masks being dropped. Then just try walking out of the wc with your head held high while the scent of pepe-le-phew follows you down the aisle (no amount of arm waving in the cubicle dispells the odour and trying to camourflage with perfume tends brings on eye-watering reactions, the mascara runs and you end up looking like an extra from 'the zombies return' movie). The benefits are that those sitting next to you will request new seating and your stomach has concaved enough to make bikini wearing acceptable.
After two fabbo days in Barcelona, I hopped another flight to Madrid...ready to take on the architectural delights, after Barcelona, figured the capital city will have lots on offer, well didn´t get past the taxi driver at the airport - I get directed into the que and when my turn comes to get the next in line cab. I in my best lisp ispired accent proceed to ask for my hotel with the street name (I came prepared), cabbie (five foot nothing with a moustache wider than his face) asks if I´m on my own -"yeth" I respond... "Noh Ombre" he asks...."Noh" I answer honestly, after a quick calculation of whether I'd made any recent commitments ..."what about at ome", that would still be a "noh". Cabbie walks off to the cluster of other drivers, yours truly thinking it´s to do with finding the best way to do the scenic route without raising my suspicions, when he comes back announcing that driver ´Miguel´has a cousins son who´d do nicely as an ómbre for the lonely Duchess and thus proceeding to give me the virtues of this particular Spaniard (no commitments - read not working; tall - read over five foot; well build - read hasn't lost any limbs). Well blow me over, what can I say, no need to log onto a lonely hearts web site, the local cabbies have got you covered in Mah-Drid.
No sooner had I checked the main sights of Mah–drid that I realise I'm missing Gaudi's Barcelona, this dude was an architectural genius and worthy of a second look....so back on plane - double check there are no delays before proceeding through security, once in a week is quite enough blood sugar levels being depleted in departure lounge...don't need to be eyeing off junior travellers half chewed teething rings and their unreasonable parents reluctance to share the stewed apple, it's not like you're asking to adopt the rug rats.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Tied Down
Back tracking a little in this adventure as the memory bank starts to recall some interesting events: A few months ago having arrived at Sabrinas place, in the Cote d’Azure, I knew I was going to enjoy the place – well a girl can tell this by the simple things like: a decent wine can be purchase, that’s two (not one) bottles of red for less than garbage disposal liners or better still where a café crème is double the price of the red brew.... well I’ve needed to cut down on my caffeine and it makes sense in these cost conscious days to drink the more economical of the two.
What’s not to like - a city by the Ocean, surrounded by mega yachts that come with their own sailors; a fortress wall for protection from invaders; plenty of good food and instant friends. Having dumped the travel bags, I gave the bathroom 10 minutes (ok, it was more like 30, too many champers) and to counter the dehydrating factor of flying we went to a local bar to replenish. As can happen, usually not within said guest (moi) arriving only 24 hours before, however, extenuating circumstances (read male & gorgeous), Sabrina has disappeared (with entertainment) and thus my lodgings are not available 'ce soir' (this evening), this event is prior to our relocation to a more entertainment friendly abode.
Hours later…perhaps days (but who’s counting) I find the room moving – don’t panic it’s Ok I’m in a boat….no,no, it’s a yacht….oh, yeah I remember: went to dinner on one yacht and end up sleeping on another (this is the way things should be done….junior girl cadets make note, do not eat and sleep on the same yacht if you can help it, it’s really not good form when you can share your charms)....when I notice, whoah, there’s an extra arm and a couple of legs and a couple of ……. that’s right a phone call was made at some mid-night hour and an invitation was accepted and thus watching the sun come out through a port-hole is the right place to be. Just took another look, yeah my choice was fine, no harm done and even managed to pick an extremely nice yacht – not just is my equation but most of the yachties get a little star struck at the mention of this one. The Italian sailor that has my arm trapped under his waist is starting to wake – hope he has good coffee on board because there was a rope tying competition that’s still to be adjudicated on and an ability to undo what I thought a slip-knot that hasn’t slipped…the other arms getting a real crick and rope burns…oh bugger, do hope someone checks the barbeque on the balcony I tied down at home.
What’s not to like - a city by the Ocean, surrounded by mega yachts that come with their own sailors; a fortress wall for protection from invaders; plenty of good food and instant friends. Having dumped the travel bags, I gave the bathroom 10 minutes (ok, it was more like 30, too many champers) and to counter the dehydrating factor of flying we went to a local bar to replenish. As can happen, usually not within said guest (moi) arriving only 24 hours before, however, extenuating circumstances (read male & gorgeous), Sabrina has disappeared (with entertainment) and thus my lodgings are not available 'ce soir' (this evening), this event is prior to our relocation to a more entertainment friendly abode.
Hours later…perhaps days (but who’s counting) I find the room moving – don’t panic it’s Ok I’m in a boat….no,no, it’s a yacht….oh, yeah I remember: went to dinner on one yacht and end up sleeping on another (this is the way things should be done….junior girl cadets make note, do not eat and sleep on the same yacht if you can help it, it’s really not good form when you can share your charms)....when I notice, whoah, there’s an extra arm and a couple of legs and a couple of ……. that’s right a phone call was made at some mid-night hour and an invitation was accepted and thus watching the sun come out through a port-hole is the right place to be. Just took another look, yeah my choice was fine, no harm done and even managed to pick an extremely nice yacht – not just is my equation but most of the yachties get a little star struck at the mention of this one. The Italian sailor that has my arm trapped under his waist is starting to wake – hope he has good coffee on board because there was a rope tying competition that’s still to be adjudicated on and an ability to undo what I thought a slip-knot that hasn’t slipped…the other arms getting a real crick and rope burns…oh bugger, do hope someone checks the barbeque on the balcony I tied down at home.
Medina
Desperately needed some thawing out and trying to catch a couple of sun rays by following said planet by moving bar to bar looking for an outdoor seating position to indulge a glass of vino and primarily preventing scurvy – I know it’s been unheard of in over 100 years, but why risk it I say. With this technique you get about 20 minutes to order and drink before you lose the heat and forced to move to next sun-soaked position, thus its an endless battle to stay warm; stay sober; find your way to the next naturally occurring hot spot (now which way is west)? Damn hard work.
With all of the above to contend with one Duchess and Princess made a decision (this is always cause for celebration, - glasses went ‘chink..chink’ - because decision are more painful and sometimes more embarrassing than a quick dip in the neighbours pool (indoor) at 3am in Winter – don’t want to dash across frost bitten lawns in the buff again…and of course the conversation that needs to be had the following day, with or without law enforcement officers present... phew). So off we go finding more appropriate atmospheres and thus within 24 hours we find ourselves jetting off to Marrakesh, via Cassablanca. The travel agents suggestion of going via Paris which didn’t make sense to us, (for those with limited geographic talent this is a bit like leaving Rome for Athens via Antarctic –get the picture). Although it was tempting to stop in and see how the Gods (Gucci; Prada & co) were doing mid-season and with prevalent economic disaster we thought (again problem..we were thinking) this could work but then a light came on in the travel agents over coiffured head and the more direct route was booked.
Landed in glorious sunshine in Marrakesh, transported to our painfully selected Riad (went through at least a hundred potential options before settling on the most gorgeous dark brooding, recently refurbed abode, well yeah of course we wanted the real Marrakech without the reality). We get dropped off in the centre of the old Medina with MoMo (the Riads goffer) on hand to greet us and escort us the rest of the way, there aint no getting a vehicle through these laneways (a donkey, one on serious food rations, and cart just fit), as we’re more concentrated on not falling over in our stilletos – perhaps not the most practical footwear, but the locals were transfixed with our tootsies and one should always try to make an impression with the community, we really were not paying too much attention to the directions we were being taken in, but MoMo landed us in front of a non-descript door and welcomed us in – wow, nice, very nice, may choose not to leave for a while.
As we now have a home with caring staff (read: others to think for us), we headed straight out into the pre-dusk of the Medina, again it may have been an idea to note directions, well that’s easy to say now, but then there didn’t seem much haste. Walked and walked, gaped at all the sights – the souks with their multi-coloured offerings; the dress code from every century since Adam was a pup and the mange cats – what’s with Marrakesh and cats don’t they cull or eat them?.... well with this much entertainment who wants to think about getting back to base camp….4 hours later, having sampled ‘Chateau Sahara Blanc’ it seemed like a good idea to head for bed, although the local souks were very generous in offering their lodgings to us (do believe it was a shared situation they were referring to)…..Ok which way, and you can’t use the buildings as a reference as they’re all a faded terracotta colour and the street grid is non-existent so being the practical girls we are, we stopped a young street urchin ‘Mohammed’ and asked him whether he knew our Riad….Mohammed took one look at our feet and said sure he did (obviously the grape-vine had been working and our choice of sandals had reached all corners of the Medina). Mohammed proceeded to escort us home with references to the local sights – why we went by the Jusef Mosque three times was a mystery to us – it could be religious tokenism and we don’t want to be messing with gods we’re not on a mailing list with, so we indulged Mohammeds track to home). The born trader that Mohammed is negotiated a per kilometer deal that would have put us into another pair of designer sandals (each), but Chateau Sahara had weakened our resolve and we're grateful to have the sense not to have taken the local souks offer of accommodation although they told us it was for "free".
With all of the above to contend with one Duchess and Princess made a decision (this is always cause for celebration, - glasses went ‘chink..chink’ - because decision are more painful and sometimes more embarrassing than a quick dip in the neighbours pool (indoor) at 3am in Winter – don’t want to dash across frost bitten lawns in the buff again…and of course the conversation that needs to be had the following day, with or without law enforcement officers present... phew). So off we go finding more appropriate atmospheres and thus within 24 hours we find ourselves jetting off to Marrakesh, via Cassablanca. The travel agents suggestion of going via Paris which didn’t make sense to us, (for those with limited geographic talent this is a bit like leaving Rome for Athens via Antarctic –get the picture). Although it was tempting to stop in and see how the Gods (Gucci; Prada & co) were doing mid-season and with prevalent economic disaster we thought (again problem..we were thinking) this could work but then a light came on in the travel agents over coiffured head and the more direct route was booked.
Landed in glorious sunshine in Marrakesh, transported to our painfully selected Riad (went through at least a hundred potential options before settling on the most gorgeous dark brooding, recently refurbed abode, well yeah of course we wanted the real Marrakech without the reality). We get dropped off in the centre of the old Medina with MoMo (the Riads goffer) on hand to greet us and escort us the rest of the way, there aint no getting a vehicle through these laneways (a donkey, one on serious food rations, and cart just fit), as we’re more concentrated on not falling over in our stilletos – perhaps not the most practical footwear, but the locals were transfixed with our tootsies and one should always try to make an impression with the community, we really were not paying too much attention to the directions we were being taken in, but MoMo landed us in front of a non-descript door and welcomed us in – wow, nice, very nice, may choose not to leave for a while.
As we now have a home with caring staff (read: others to think for us), we headed straight out into the pre-dusk of the Medina, again it may have been an idea to note directions, well that’s easy to say now, but then there didn’t seem much haste. Walked and walked, gaped at all the sights – the souks with their multi-coloured offerings; the dress code from every century since Adam was a pup and the mange cats – what’s with Marrakesh and cats don’t they cull or eat them?.... well with this much entertainment who wants to think about getting back to base camp….4 hours later, having sampled ‘Chateau Sahara Blanc’ it seemed like a good idea to head for bed, although the local souks were very generous in offering their lodgings to us (do believe it was a shared situation they were referring to)…..Ok which way, and you can’t use the buildings as a reference as they’re all a faded terracotta colour and the street grid is non-existent so being the practical girls we are, we stopped a young street urchin ‘Mohammed’ and asked him whether he knew our Riad….Mohammed took one look at our feet and said sure he did (obviously the grape-vine had been working and our choice of sandals had reached all corners of the Medina). Mohammed proceeded to escort us home with references to the local sights – why we went by the Jusef Mosque three times was a mystery to us – it could be religious tokenism and we don’t want to be messing with gods we’re not on a mailing list with, so we indulged Mohammeds track to home). The born trader that Mohammed is negotiated a per kilometer deal that would have put us into another pair of designer sandals (each), but Chateau Sahara had weakened our resolve and we're grateful to have the sense not to have taken the local souks offer of accommodation although they told us it was for "free".
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Transport
I know I shouldn’t have tried, but this was a new leaf and thus new experiences were to be explored – public transport (although excellent in France, I’m told compared to other places in the world) is not an experience I’m willing to repeat too often…oh, just had a thought - do airlines count as public transport???? – if so, can private jet owners please contact me for future commuting. Thus a couple of trips along the Cote d’ Azure were pleasant (read with a tinge of sarcasm), and the couple of attempts at commuting which were foiled by the rolling strikes of said public transport…I know it doesn’t take a lot – never claimed patience or long attention spans.
Hunting for a vehicle is not so easy, when as described before my French is limited and thus I could be purchasing a submarine rather than a sedan, which may in fact work just fine…..there shouldn’t be too many tolls or parking issues, there wouldn’t be issues of which side of the white line one should stay on and this is enough thinking without purchasing a right hand drive in a left hand drive country, thus the conflict of road sides with seating arrangements gets all too much, did I mention the gear shift aswelll….it’s almost all too much – anyone out there with an available chauffeured limo please contact writer.
No really, I am going to persist with this purchase – after all the world economy is crashing and I’m going to see a normally overpriced vehicle is acquired at a bare minimum value from a banking director whose last bonus cheque would float a small nation, but of course he can’t flaunt such obscenity and thus the relinquishing of four wheeled toys to those of us who can’t believe their luck …..this may apply to jets also, heard a couple of mega-companies who’ve put their hands out for government bailout funds are finding this little tickets item hard to explain to the funding tax payers….starting to love the recession.
So here I go purchasing a vehicle in a country that not only drives on the other side of the road but the driver seat is on the wrong side and do I need to mention that there hasn’t been a sober day (well maybe one) since I arrived…..Oh the memorize of childhood with dad driving.
Hunting for a vehicle is not so easy, when as described before my French is limited and thus I could be purchasing a submarine rather than a sedan, which may in fact work just fine…..there shouldn’t be too many tolls or parking issues, there wouldn’t be issues of which side of the white line one should stay on and this is enough thinking without purchasing a right hand drive in a left hand drive country, thus the conflict of road sides with seating arrangements gets all too much, did I mention the gear shift aswelll….it’s almost all too much – anyone out there with an available chauffeured limo please contact writer.
No really, I am going to persist with this purchase – after all the world economy is crashing and I’m going to see a normally overpriced vehicle is acquired at a bare minimum value from a banking director whose last bonus cheque would float a small nation, but of course he can’t flaunt such obscenity and thus the relinquishing of four wheeled toys to those of us who can’t believe their luck …..this may apply to jets also, heard a couple of mega-companies who’ve put their hands out for government bailout funds are finding this little tickets item hard to explain to the funding tax payers….starting to love the recession.
So here I go purchasing a vehicle in a country that not only drives on the other side of the road but the driver seat is on the wrong side and do I need to mention that there hasn’t been a sober day (well maybe one) since I arrived…..Oh the memorize of childhood with dad driving.
Maison - Chambres Deux
Sab and I have found a fabulous new apartment, situated above a shoe store, a pattisserie is next door and directly opposite there’s Swarovski’s, what can one say even if we develop a weight problem due to the bakery we’ll have gorgeous looking feet and lobes thus providing distraction from midriff, this little crisis can also be improved on with junior Fire Fighter (this category ‘FF’ shall be expanded on) providing a source of energetic exercise, one must be frugal in what one discards or at the very least recycling should be practiced as you can see potential in all proposition.
The house warming is being delayed due to all the categories of ‘damaged finger’ parties we need to get through first and also a few of the ‘court members’ are away on designated leave and work duties and of course such an important event needs a bit of attention and currently the distraction of wine stopper selection (when you have wine out as often as we do this little devise is seen in public more than Paris Hilton). There’s also the issue of having a chandelier fitted, well one can’t be regal without dangling crystals and with my predilection to shiny objects I wouldn’t feel at home without one and so said necessities of comfortable living must be attended to….yes I know we’re living in times of economic hardship, but can’t someone else take on this burden for a while, it’s ever so boring and requires such discipline I don’t think I’m qualified.
My French has been tested and found wanting – I thought I had pre-ordered 2 baguettes for 6 o’clock, but at time of collection found that my request was for 6 baguettes in 2 hours – not wanting to add conflict with the gorgeous bakery staff (Maree who explained the possibility of ‘reserving ones baguette’ and Aimee who indulges my semi-conscious; finger pointing; 8am on the way home puchases of pastries – of which I usually don’t eat, however, I love the selection of these indulgences and the packaging in which they come, sounds familiar as I pick my men in a not dissimilar way), or create another addiction, especially one involving excess weight, so off to Patrick’s with these fresh temptations (as Patrick is still skiing while yours truly has had her plans for getting her toosh to lift itself off the back of her knees canned, so I figured he could work off the carbs with two down hill runs either on the slopes or in his bed, to my mortification, - ok, it wasn’t mortification, purely circumstance I’ve seen Patrick at both of these activities and must say he cuts well with or without an accomplice), now I’m thinking that perhaps this little bakery mispronounciation has also been conflicting my love life with my latest entertainment, perhaps I’ve been asking junior FF to leave at 2 when I thought I was asking to be entertained by 2….better get this bit of communication sorted otherwise we’re in for a very short affair and one not worthy of script.
The house warming is being delayed due to all the categories of ‘damaged finger’ parties we need to get through first and also a few of the ‘court members’ are away on designated leave and work duties and of course such an important event needs a bit of attention and currently the distraction of wine stopper selection (when you have wine out as often as we do this little devise is seen in public more than Paris Hilton). There’s also the issue of having a chandelier fitted, well one can’t be regal without dangling crystals and with my predilection to shiny objects I wouldn’t feel at home without one and so said necessities of comfortable living must be attended to….yes I know we’re living in times of economic hardship, but can’t someone else take on this burden for a while, it’s ever so boring and requires such discipline I don’t think I’m qualified.
My French has been tested and found wanting – I thought I had pre-ordered 2 baguettes for 6 o’clock, but at time of collection found that my request was for 6 baguettes in 2 hours – not wanting to add conflict with the gorgeous bakery staff (Maree who explained the possibility of ‘reserving ones baguette’ and Aimee who indulges my semi-conscious; finger pointing; 8am on the way home puchases of pastries – of which I usually don’t eat, however, I love the selection of these indulgences and the packaging in which they come, sounds familiar as I pick my men in a not dissimilar way), or create another addiction, especially one involving excess weight, so off to Patrick’s with these fresh temptations (as Patrick is still skiing while yours truly has had her plans for getting her toosh to lift itself off the back of her knees canned, so I figured he could work off the carbs with two down hill runs either on the slopes or in his bed, to my mortification, - ok, it wasn’t mortification, purely circumstance I’ve seen Patrick at both of these activities and must say he cuts well with or without an accomplice), now I’m thinking that perhaps this little bakery mispronounciation has also been conflicting my love life with my latest entertainment, perhaps I’ve been asking junior FF to leave at 2 when I thought I was asking to be entertained by 2….better get this bit of communication sorted otherwise we’re in for a very short affair and one not worthy of script.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Broken
It’s 10 days since the dislocated thumb party (this theme is currently winning the local ‘reason to throw a party’ competition, damaged body parts are usually hard to beat); a trip to Paris for New Years Eve; as well as taking in some cultural sites – a girl must stay in touch with what’s happening at the Louvre and of course the lords of fashion ‘Gucci’; Jimmy Choo; Hermes and Cartier all expected a visit. There have been another couple of parties on my return to C’ote d Azure and the apartment move did not allow the inconvenience of another visit to a specialist, other than my beauty parlour – can’t be doing all the above with rampant leg hair, so finally I get to one Dr Pierre (of most appealing appearance) who proceeds to do the ‘pull my finger’ trick …. and when I finally let out a yelp – I’ve learnt to keep quiet through some excruciatingly good moments and although this wasn’t one, remembering Dr Pierre is terribly cute, however, he has a wedding band, so I figured it’s not too early for a little practice. The upside is I get to hang out with Doc for a little while longer and we’ll see if that reclining examination table will come into good use and perhaps a little hypochondria will see me through the Winter days.
Of course now there’s going to be a broken thumb party, followed by the removal of the cast party; followed by the I can wear gloves again party – you get the idea.
It's few more days on and I’ve had to have said derelict digit x-rayed again, there came a clucking sound from the radiologist – never the noise you want to hear outside a farm yard – back to ‘le’ Doc was the instruction….but of course, if you insist – more pull my finger stunts but with greater intensity of pain than I wish to ever again experience – there is no fine line between pleasure and pain as far as this babe is concerned, and it was difficult to summon even my most vivid imagination of Doc and I embracing over the sterilizing unit when the natural reflex is to bury my left fist in the side of Docs head – one of the great things evolving from this little mishap (apart from Adonis and the Doc), is the new implementation of skills with my left hand, how underutilized had this appendage been, my left hand has been living the easy life…not any more it is learning life skills at an intense pace – to date all personal duties are handled (no pun intended) by leftie, as are cutting; serving; carrying; zippering; shampooing and of course the signing of Visa card so I think life with a broken right thumb is bearable when one can shop unassisted.
Of course now there’s going to be a broken thumb party, followed by the removal of the cast party; followed by the I can wear gloves again party – you get the idea.
It's few more days on and I’ve had to have said derelict digit x-rayed again, there came a clucking sound from the radiologist – never the noise you want to hear outside a farm yard – back to ‘le’ Doc was the instruction….but of course, if you insist – more pull my finger stunts but with greater intensity of pain than I wish to ever again experience – there is no fine line between pleasure and pain as far as this babe is concerned, and it was difficult to summon even my most vivid imagination of Doc and I embracing over the sterilizing unit when the natural reflex is to bury my left fist in the side of Docs head – one of the great things evolving from this little mishap (apart from Adonis and the Doc), is the new implementation of skills with my left hand, how underutilized had this appendage been, my left hand has been living the easy life…not any more it is learning life skills at an intense pace – to date all personal duties are handled (no pun intended) by leftie, as are cutting; serving; carrying; zippering; shampooing and of course the signing of Visa card so I think life with a broken right thumb is bearable when one can shop unassisted.
Monday, February 2, 2009
It only happens down hill
Skiing they offered, yes I said, off to Auron they said, lead the way I said, so there we are – Patrick, who stopped drinking and self medicating for 12 hours so that he could take charge of our transportation, because you should not be operating heavy machinery, we know this even though his medicine pack doesn’t come with a National health warning. In the back seat trying to get an extra hours sleep after an exhausting evening with a particularly healthy specimen of a young man the one and only Mel babe in uber-glam gear – we deliver ourselves into the milky cold fields of the French ski slopes and proceed to have a fabulous time.
Thinking I’ve finally mastered the trick of staying upright while plummeting down a mountain with only a couple of icy pole sticks and some very swish new ski gear (de-riguer for this pseudo-Royal) when for reasons beyond my 5th grade physics I came to a grinding stand still, planted in said white snow (and its never as soft as it looks), thinking this was one spectacular landing I commenced to pull myself together, while concerned fellow skiers brought the paraphenalia I’d strewn across the field to one sorry for her self Duchess. At this stage it seemed important that I should remove right hand glove to inspect damaged manicure, when I find one’s thumb in a most distasteful position, I chose to bury it immediately in the snow – do not need to look upon such brutality – having first noticed that the French polish wasn’t chipped.
Medic was called, he insisted on inspecting the damaged goods, which was now buried under 30cm of snow….I really, really didn’t want to see my mangled digit….he insisted, so while he excavated for the now preserved member a little pray for mercy was answered in the form of a second medic of desirable stature and extremely pleasant features to distract me from the unpleasantness of my condition, thank-you snow goddess, three hail margaritas were quietly said in reverence as snow Adonis proceeded to strap me into sled (unfortunately without him, although this request seemed reasonable to me and I’m sure I saw a glimmer of amusement and possibility, both of which I’m partial to).
Having been delivered to medical centre, I made promise to Adonis I’ll return to throw myself down his slope as soon as all my parts are in working order again.
Once more offending digit had to be excavated from portable snow, do I have to say it: I really, really did not want to set eyes on this sight until all was pretty again, so yes I carried 5 kilos of ice with me, Doc removed my hand for inspection while I distracted myself – focusing on something shiny usually helps, however, his medical utensils only intensified the stress, so Mel babe stood to one side with her Hollywood smile (as good as any mirror ball), bless my considerate friends. Well the old joke of ‘pull my finger’ wasn’t quite so funny when relocating of a thumb is involved, especially ones own.
For the trip home Doc provided some excellent pain relief (although he didn’t see the funny side of my asking whether I could borrow a straw – I thought I may have been given a choice of medications, after all I’ve got private medical cover) and thus Patrick’s manic adrenaline induced driving seemed like a Sunday ride through the country, Mel babe seated in the rear took one look, squeeled and refused another look out the front windscreen - in all fairness we were deposited home without incident or further damage to anyone’s person….shower; champagne and bed – good night.
Thinking I’ve finally mastered the trick of staying upright while plummeting down a mountain with only a couple of icy pole sticks and some very swish new ski gear (de-riguer for this pseudo-Royal) when for reasons beyond my 5th grade physics I came to a grinding stand still, planted in said white snow (and its never as soft as it looks), thinking this was one spectacular landing I commenced to pull myself together, while concerned fellow skiers brought the paraphenalia I’d strewn across the field to one sorry for her self Duchess. At this stage it seemed important that I should remove right hand glove to inspect damaged manicure, when I find one’s thumb in a most distasteful position, I chose to bury it immediately in the snow – do not need to look upon such brutality – having first noticed that the French polish wasn’t chipped.
Medic was called, he insisted on inspecting the damaged goods, which was now buried under 30cm of snow….I really, really didn’t want to see my mangled digit….he insisted, so while he excavated for the now preserved member a little pray for mercy was answered in the form of a second medic of desirable stature and extremely pleasant features to distract me from the unpleasantness of my condition, thank-you snow goddess, three hail margaritas were quietly said in reverence as snow Adonis proceeded to strap me into sled (unfortunately without him, although this request seemed reasonable to me and I’m sure I saw a glimmer of amusement and possibility, both of which I’m partial to).
Having been delivered to medical centre, I made promise to Adonis I’ll return to throw myself down his slope as soon as all my parts are in working order again.
Once more offending digit had to be excavated from portable snow, do I have to say it: I really, really did not want to set eyes on this sight until all was pretty again, so yes I carried 5 kilos of ice with me, Doc removed my hand for inspection while I distracted myself – focusing on something shiny usually helps, however, his medical utensils only intensified the stress, so Mel babe stood to one side with her Hollywood smile (as good as any mirror ball), bless my considerate friends. Well the old joke of ‘pull my finger’ wasn’t quite so funny when relocating of a thumb is involved, especially ones own.
For the trip home Doc provided some excellent pain relief (although he didn’t see the funny side of my asking whether I could borrow a straw – I thought I may have been given a choice of medications, after all I’ve got private medical cover) and thus Patrick’s manic adrenaline induced driving seemed like a Sunday ride through the country, Mel babe seated in the rear took one look, squeeled and refused another look out the front windscreen - in all fairness we were deposited home without incident or further damage to anyone’s person….shower; champagne and bed – good night.
Duchess & Princess
Got to love a place that gives you a title within 48 hours of arriving at its shores – a bit like Grace when she arrived in Monaco (junior cadets, read a little on royalty if you’re not sure about this, or ask your gran if you’re busy with make-up), perhaps its tradition in these waters.
I’m sure it’s the same the world over - one walks into a bar meets a 70 year old English fag and is presented with the title of Duchess, he may be slightly deaf and legally blind but I’m convinced he has a sixth sense for these things.
Basically we walk into the local bar – that’s Sabrina and I, someone calls out ‘hey bitches’ and thus Sam (the blind/deaf fag) starts calling me Duchess. On hearing this new title Sab proceeds to fain indignation and claims to have been in said company (Sams) for several truck loads of champagne and never had such recognition – well Sam couldn’t quite make out the fuss, but thinks it has something to do with Sab buying him the company of a trucker and thus calls her Princess…..it’s as simple as that, there’s absolutely no need to try and find a band of marauding warriors to conquer the local principality, too time consuming and predictable and so one Duchess and Princess are currently attending all the local soirees and making decrees at a whim – eg. No going out in public without a minimum of 3 items of make-up (mascara doesn’t count, this is a medical item, which should be tax deductible); never have one glass of champagne when you can have two; never leave your two boyfriends together in the same bedroom – this is a serious one I’ve experienced this twice in my time now and although they’re all very happy with each other I’m still trying to get my glomesh items back.
I’m sure it’s the same the world over - one walks into a bar meets a 70 year old English fag and is presented with the title of Duchess, he may be slightly deaf and legally blind but I’m convinced he has a sixth sense for these things.
Basically we walk into the local bar – that’s Sabrina and I, someone calls out ‘hey bitches’ and thus Sam (the blind/deaf fag) starts calling me Duchess. On hearing this new title Sab proceeds to fain indignation and claims to have been in said company (Sams) for several truck loads of champagne and never had such recognition – well Sam couldn’t quite make out the fuss, but thinks it has something to do with Sab buying him the company of a trucker and thus calls her Princess…..it’s as simple as that, there’s absolutely no need to try and find a band of marauding warriors to conquer the local principality, too time consuming and predictable and so one Duchess and Princess are currently attending all the local soirees and making decrees at a whim – eg. No going out in public without a minimum of 3 items of make-up (mascara doesn’t count, this is a medical item, which should be tax deductible); never have one glass of champagne when you can have two; never leave your two boyfriends together in the same bedroom – this is a serious one I’ve experienced this twice in my time now and although they’re all very happy with each other I’m still trying to get my glomesh items back.
Simon Tahiti
Travelling in style, business class from Melbourne to Nice , flight relatively empty so played mind game of ‘Simon Tahiti’ while summoning the limp wristed flight attendant (so cliché, so de riguer), trying not to drink too many champagnes on the flight as I am wearing a pair of heels and it is never a good look to stumble out of the plane declaring ‘we landed didn’t we’ – this game doesn’t work so well any more as they lock the pilots cabin at take-off and you can’t borrow his hat for the landing performance, most folk would think that the cabin lock is to do with the world wide paranoia about terrorism, from a girl who’s seen the inside of a few cockpits, let me tell you it’s all about the missing hat and occasional pilots jacket (this really, really works as you can get through customs and baggage at amazing pace with the extra smokes and booze and then if your entourage is waiting, well it’s simply the talk of arrivals for the day).
It’s always fabulous to get through customs and see a familiar face and Sabrina’s was the one I was glad to see striding toward me, arms outstretched (a couple of slow movers received a smack to the back of their heads – they’ll learn), hugs, kisses, more hugs, the joy of seeing a familiar face after too many months apart.
I was picked out by Sab’s designated driver ‘Preston’ who quipped “there’s a posh bitch coming out now”, at this point Sab had no doubts who this would be and thus the fervent pitch to get to me before someone else made claim or I chose a different ride home, both of which have happened in previous landings and usually when one is forced to fly economy – lack of sleep and the frustration of trying to open the salt & pepper packs leaving you looking like a bad dandruff case impairs judgement and I’m yet to have a good experience with this little travel event, not even the gorgeous thirty year old with a Porsche was a good idea, if living with your mommy is the only way you’re going to afford a luxury car “Don’t Do It” and then it was a real bugger trying to get my then boyfriend to see the funny side of this caper. So you see Sabrina’s need to make claim was most appropriate as it has been harder to get me back than your lost luggage from ‘Toss a Coin Airlines”, without a docket or a masters in hieroglyphics.
It’s always fabulous to get through customs and see a familiar face and Sabrina’s was the one I was glad to see striding toward me, arms outstretched (a couple of slow movers received a smack to the back of their heads – they’ll learn), hugs, kisses, more hugs, the joy of seeing a familiar face after too many months apart.
I was picked out by Sab’s designated driver ‘Preston’ who quipped “there’s a posh bitch coming out now”, at this point Sab had no doubts who this would be and thus the fervent pitch to get to me before someone else made claim or I chose a different ride home, both of which have happened in previous landings and usually when one is forced to fly economy – lack of sleep and the frustration of trying to open the salt & pepper packs leaving you looking like a bad dandruff case impairs judgement and I’m yet to have a good experience with this little travel event, not even the gorgeous thirty year old with a Porsche was a good idea, if living with your mommy is the only way you’re going to afford a luxury car “Don’t Do It” and then it was a real bugger trying to get my then boyfriend to see the funny side of this caper. So you see Sabrina’s need to make claim was most appropriate as it has been harder to get me back than your lost luggage from ‘Toss a Coin Airlines”, without a docket or a masters in hieroglyphics.
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