So…….I went to Marrakech. It assaulted me full on in the face. Here’s my top 10 tips:
1. If an old man offers your boyfriend 5 camels for you, bargain harder
I knew it would happen eventually. An old man yells to your boyfriend ‘Hey, you have a very nice wife! I will give you five camels for her’. Andrew told me that he could have got 10 if I wasn’t Australian. Bastard (but maybe true)
2. Hotels in Marrakech ‘could’ be haunted
We booked a somewhat ‘budget’ deal for this trip and as such our hotel was rather ‘rustic’ (by which I mean shite). It also had some interesting paintings on the wall including one of some gypsy women with black eyes which hung next to the bed. The first night in the hotel, I woke up convinced that my boyfriend was a complete stranger. Obviously concerned as to why I was in a hotel room with a total stranger, I got out of the bed and slept on another bed on the other side of the room!
Our second day in the hotel, it became evident that at 5am every morning there is a load of shouting out in the street. Who knows why. As such, we got hold of some gummy earplugs. The next morning I woke up and my ear plugs were not in my ears. I couldn’t find them in the bed. Then I saw them stuck to the weird painting of the gypsy women!!! WHOOOAHH!?
3. A visit to the Hammam involves a woman rubbing your boobies
As a small respite from the chaos outside, I thought it would be relaxing to book us in for a traditional Hammam and massage. The Hammam part involved being put into a heated stone cabin where we were attacked with buckets of water and told ‘lay down!’, ‘roll over!’ as they scrubbed the very life out of us with mitts. We were then covered in a body and face mask and they left us there. We relaxed for 10 minutes, chatting, farting, singing etc. Then another 10 minutes. Then it started to get hotter. We started to get a little claustrophobic. Just as I was about to bust the fuck outta there, covered in brown muddy stuff, they came back in and threw more water on us, including a good wash down the pants!
After this we separated for the massage where the woman spent a significant amount of time massaging my boobs. Slightly awkward. They then took us to a chill out room where Andy was already waiting with a slightly petrified look on his face. ‘How was you massage?’, I asked. ‘It was with a man’ he said. ‘Was it good?’ I asked. ‘Well it was a bit weird when he rubbed my balls for about half an hour’ he said with a dead pan face’. ‘WHAT!?’ I shrieked.
He had me going for a good hour on that one.
4. Stay to the right in the souks or risk death
The souks are bloody intense. They fly through there on motorbikes without any regard for man, woman, child, donkey or monkey. I was nearly knocked down 17 times!
Here I am looking scared…………..
5. If a strange man asks you to have tea with his family - don’t!
We got accosted by a man in the street offering to take us somewhere ‘off the tourist track’ which is code for ‘I’m going to lead you somewhere really scary and you will never find your way back’ BTW. Aware of this type of thing we insisted that we didn’t want to go, meanwhile walking deeper and deeper into the labrynth of narrow streets. ‘Please come to my family’s house for some tea’ he insisted. ‘No thanks’, we said again, attempting to get past him. ‘Hey, you are rubbish tourists, you have viruses!’ This was actually quite scary.
6. If you have a shit hotel with a freezing cold pool that doesn’t get any sun, you can gate-crash at the Sofitel
After discovering that the pool at our hotel was situated at such an angle that you could only catch the sun for 0.7 seconds per day, we took our white butts over to the sprawling compound at the Sofitel in Hivernage where you can score a nice big day bed, towels, cocktails and an ace club sandwich! We booked that all on room 509. Sorry if that was you.
7. Taxi Drivers will take the piss…..A LOT!
We jumped in a cab on evening headed for a restaurant only to be driven further and further into the Medina. As we got deeper into the winding streets, the driver eventually pulled up, stopped and said ‘Restaurant is closed’. This was quite frankly shit news as I was busting for the loo and starving hungry. In addition, we were also lost and he was now asking for 150 dirhams which is WAY too much. After a 10 minute argument over the fare and the fact that the restaurant was shut, we eventually escaped and hunted for the nearest place for a pee. It was quite far.
8. Old men on bikes can become aggressive (although they are generally too weak to be dangerous)
After our escape from the mad taxi driver, an old man rode directly into Andy (albeit at a relatively slow pace). Still confused about what had just happened we continued to wander off into the distance. Meanwhile the old man proceeded to hit Andy in the back. When I say hit, I mean attempt to hit but really just drag is fist down his back very slowly.
9. Peppermint Tea with loads of sugar is amazing
Obsessed with it.
10. Don’t consume 2 bottles of red wine and miss your flight back
Our final afternoon in Marrakech we headed to a restaurant and sipped on a couple of glasses of red vino. Our flight left at 8.25pm. At 7.15 we were still in the restaurant. This was obviously a mistake. We made it to the airport at 7.45pm and the check-in desk was closed. A small argument ensued over the fact that the flight still hadn’t left and therefore we should be able to board. This was futile and someone fuelled by red wine. Thankfully our eager taxi driver came running into the terminal (knowing that us foolish tourists had missed our flight). He booked us a night in another hotel which turned out to be LOVELY and not haunted at all.
Have you been to Marrakech?
Were you kind of scared?
Is it true that Australian women are only worth 5 camels?
Saz’s Mazzakezza Recommendazza’s:
La Mamounia Hotel No we didn’t stay there. We’re not oil tycoons you know! We did go there for an early evening drink though which was very bloody lovely! Grab a spot out on the terrace bar and neck a Campari.
Le Tobsil Restaurant An amazing Moroccan restaurant serving up a five course feast! This place is hard to find so if you’re hunting around, getting lost and you hear a man in a cape with a lantern say ‘Le Tobsil’, follow him and ye shall eat like sultans!
Les Bains De Marrakech This was the Hammam and Spa we visited and got touched in strange and wonderful ways. It was actually very nice.
Villa Amira This was the hotel our taxi driver took us to on the last night which was lovely. Run by the nicest people and serve a breakfast including chocolate cake (do you need any more convincing!?). It’s a short cab ride out of the Medina but that’s not such a bad thing.
Love Saz xx
Some of you may have been misled by the title of this post into believing that I planned to write about the famous British Poet of the Romance movement. To you I say - HA! I fooled you. I will in fact be writing about my beloved family pet. A chocolate brown Burmese cat, appropriately named Lord Byron
Not this you see…..
Like most of our pets, Lord Byron found us rather than us seeking him. In actual fact, Mum was feeding him and he kept coming back until eventually his owner said ‘Oh for God’s sake, just keep him!’ So we did.
Having tried unsuccessfully to raise a series of pet cats including one which Mum ran over by accident and one which was brought over by a neighbour in a bin bag after his dog had killed it, we were pretty determined to keep this cat alive for as long as possible.
The Lord came to be with us when I was 14 and now I am…..much older than that and the little mongrel is still insisting on living his pampered and luxurious life.
After a few scuffles with other cats in the neighbourhood where Byron came off worse (I put it down to th sparkly collar Mum kept putting him in), Mum decided we couldn’t risk him meeting his end and costing us a fortune in vet bills, so he was to become confined to the house in the evenings FOREVER.
Mum could be heard up the lane way yelling ‘BYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYRRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNN!’ every night at about 6pm. The problem however was that Byron didn’t want to be kept inside at night. His Tom Cat senses were calling him out. Once dragged in, he would let out the loudest, most persistent meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeooooooooooows all through the night in protest of this new strict regime.
We all started to go crazy from lack of sleep so my Mum went to the Vet. The Vet told her he had a behavioral issue and prescribed Pet Prozac for the Lord. Half a tablet jammed down his throat every evening did the trick. He melted into a dreamy haze and wandered around the house till he curled up and slept quietly.
This went on for years and as the years went by, Byron got a little lazier and a little plumper. He has now been weaned off his prozac but hasn’t really shifted the kilo’s. He has not one but TWO pouffes in the house. One upstairs, one downstairs. My suspicion is that these have been introduced as he now too fat to heave himself up onto the couch or the bed. ‘He likes it when I fluff up his Pouffe’ Mum told me.
According to Mum, Lord Byron also likes to announce when he has gone to the toilet. He goes outside and does his business and then let’s out a croaky meeeoooooooooooooooooooooooooowww to let us know that the task is complete. We look on proudly as his round chocolate face and large chocolate gift.
When I was home at Christmas, I calculated that Mum talks to the cat more than she talks to Dad. One morning I heard her out the front for a good 45 minutes talking to the Lord. ‘You’ll never fit under that fence Byron’, she was telling him. ‘You can’t get over it either’ she said matter of factly. Poor things was just looking at the fence, hoping against hope that one day he might someone shoe horn himself under it and have a taste of freedom again.
Mum insists that she’s not feeding him much. He’s just ‘heavy-set’ aparently. ‘Let him live out his twighlight years in happiness!’ she cried when I told her she’s killing him with kindness. We don’t know how much longer the little bugger has, but given his lifestyle and in the absence of any stress, physical strain, kids, work or wife, I reckon the fucker will be kicking on for at least another 5 years!
Long live the Lord
Do you enjoy obese cats?
Are you disappointed this blog wasn’t about a poet?
Embarrassed peoples of the world! It’s been a while since I’ve published a Guide to Awkward Situations. If you missed the last two like a GOD DAMN FOOL, you can read my previous Guides to bad things that happen here and here.
I needed some time to stupidly involve myself in a few more awkward situations in order to gather the required expertise and sage-like advice to impart to you. Here it is…..
Not being able to overtake someone on the footpath
This happened to me this week and it reminded me how bloody annoying it is! You start walking at a pace and the person next to you seems to be also walking the same pace (I’m referring to a stranger obviously - not someone you know. It’s fine to walk next to someone you know. In fact, no doing so would be weird and a bit rude).
Fuck it! I thought, I’m not slowing down. I want to get home! He obviously had the same thought as he also wouldn’t let me overtake. We both powered forward, almost as if we were about to break into a jog. Eventually I considered slowing down but he seemed to have the same thought and then we were going at the same fucking speed again! Then he suddenly broke off to the right and went into his house. ‘HA!’ I shouted. ‘YOU LOSE!’ No not really, but I did want to.
In this situation, I recommend turning to the person next to you and saying ‘WHY THE HELL ARE YOU FOLLOWING ME!? I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU!’. They will be so shocked and embarrassed they will either run off into the distance or slow right down, leaving you to continue your walk unhindered by their annoying presence.
Getting stuck in the train doors while they’re closing
This happened to me a few weeks weeks ago. I proceeded to run towards the gates with my 16 shopping bags in heels. I was bolting down the platform towards to the train as the conductor on the platform said ‘HURRY! HURRY! TRAIN’S LEAVING’, I got to the nearest door and lept onto the train as the doors closed, wedging my handbag inbetween them. To make matters worse, I screamed quite loudly without meaning to, resulting in everyone in the very full carriage, turning to look at me. I yanked my bag through, dropped half my belongings and then sweated profusely in too many layers of clothing till I reached my stop, where I tumbled out in a shivering mess.
As I’m sure you can see, this is how NOT to deal with this situation. If you get any part of your person (well may not ANY part!) or your belongings stuck in train doors I would suggest pretending that an attacker has been pursuing you down the platform and you’ve just managed to evade him (or her - there are sometimes female attackers, although not really) and leap to the safety of the train. People will simply be glad you’re alive!
Farting in leather pants during a business meeting
This actually hasn’t happened to me, mainly because I don’t own any leather pants. I also try not to fart during business meetings if I can help it. This actually happened to a friend of mine. He was not the farter, but the fartee - is that a word? The receiver of the fart shall we say.
As the sweaty photographer proceeded to talk him through his long and arduous body of work, he shifted his weight in the chair and let out a long brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp noise. I KNOW, I KNOW - IT COULD HAVE BEEN THE PANTS MAKING FRICTION-LIKE CONTACT WITH THE CRAPPY VINYL CHAIR, but no! The smell that followed, confirmed what had occurred with certainty. Embarrassing and unpleasant for all.
In this situation, leather farty pants, upon releasing the squeak, should have made a dramatic gesture regarding his story, saying - ‘NOW COME THIS WAY, LET ME SHOW YOU SOMETHING AMAZING!’ Thereby distracting my friend from the sound and saving him from the impending stench.
Mistaking Wasabi for Avocado
I think this one needs little explanation. My Mum was out for dinner with my Dad and his boss who was over from Melbourne. Obviously trying to be on her best behaviour, Mum was chewing with her mouth closed and dabbing with her napkin, so as not to have crap all over her face. Unfortunately for her, something more evil struck than a little food caught on her bottom lip occurred.
While she was politely nibbling away on her meal, she picked up a HUGE chunk of what she thought was Avocado and shoved it in her gob. It wasn’t avocado. It was wasabi. Hot muthauckin wasabi. Well, needless to say it blew her little head off. She sat there with her nasal cavities flaring and steam coming out, wondering what the hell she had just put in her mouth.
Eventually once she swallowed and recovered slightly she said ‘Christ! That wasn’t avocado!’. Dad’s boss reasured her that people mistake Avocado for Wasabi all the time.
That’s all for this week folks!
Do you own leather pants?
Do you fart in them?
Love Saz x
Blog lovers and bored employees everywhere!
It occured to me recently that men often cite very strange thoughts as tactics to prevent….erm….. you know - JIZZING! Yes, these are the pressing current affairs issues which cloud my thoughts all day and keep me awake at night.
I know what you’re thinking - first a blog about poo, now one about jizz! For the love of God woman. Ok, I promise the next blog won’t be about bodily functions. Actually, I can’t promise that and won’t be legally held to that comment.
I’ve heard some pretty odd things on this matter and thought it would be a bonza idea to explore them further - purely from a psychological perspective of course. I asked some friends, friend’s boyfriends, work colleagues and total strangers (like, ‘Hey, yo! Yes, guy at the bus stop - what do you think of during sex to prevent prematurely ejaculating!?) and have come up with a list which reads like the thoughts of a psychotic axe-murderer.
Sitting in your grandma’s lap
This is sick on a number of levels. I bet if you asked her, your poor Grandma doesn’t really want you thinking of her while you’re having sex. In fact, I don’t think your Grandma thinks you have sex and may not even think about sex AT ALL! Don’t combine grandparents and sex. It’s just not cricket.
I think we’ve all done this as kids, but it’s not really something I’m into now. I do quite enjoy the thought of a man - mid coitus, with his eyes closed, imagining loads of worms in his mouth, gurning. It’s not the kind of face a woman wants to see at this moment in her life.
Maggie Thatcher on a Cold Day
Mag’s has been getting a lot of press lately on account of her new fancy film - The Iron Lady’. I thought it was cos she used to be an ironing lady before she was Prime Minister, but apparently it’s something different altogether. Now, I bet Maggie doesn’t know that apart from her fame as PM, she is also in the thoughts of men across the country who are envisaging her bits - cold and erect. This thought is enough to turn men off. Right off.
Spelling long words backwards
Classic diversion tactic here. Nothing gross or psychopathic about it. Just an attempt to quell the fires of desire with good old fashioned intellect. I imagine though that most men would start with normal words like ‘umbrella’ A-L-L-E-R-B-M-U….then as their arousal grew they would then turn to - TITS! ‘S-T-I-T-S’ and ARSE ‘E-S-R-A’! therefore rendering the exercise futile.
This comment actually came from a straight man. Aparently he likes to look around the room and think of what he would like to do to it. OK……..
Another good diversion tactic, although I would never make it past 2.
Old men shitting in chairs
Yes, this one is so derranged that I can’t bring myself to analyse it. Firstly old men. Why? In chairs? SHITTING!? Why? why? why? Surely this would prevent not only ejaculation, but any type of arousal at all. It may in fact cause the man to stop, roll over and vomit.
Men - do you have anything to say about this!?
Have I really, really gone too far this time?
Have you been put off your lunch? sorry
It’s finally landed with A SPLASH! (sorry urgh)
Friends, I have been inspired to write a blog about poo! After having many colourful conversations with friends about this very topic I thought it was only right to share, or should I say smear the poo love with you all!
Is is taboo to talk about poo? Other people’s poo? Like urgh, ‘I saw this one in the toilet at work and it was like not from a human’. Dog poo? Like, ‘FUCK! I stepped in a massive dogshit this morning and had to drag my shoe through a flower-bed to clean it off’. Your own poo? Like, ‘Oh yeah I got the squirts after a dodgy noodle soup in Bali’.
I mean where do we draw the line on all this poop chat? I have some friends who scream and cover their ears whenever the topic arises and others who like nothing more than a good old chin wag over the subject. They say that ladies don’t poop, which is clearly biologically impossible. We do. But we actually shit rose petals instead of faecal matter - that’s really the only difference.
Call me 7, but I find poo talk amusing. When I was back home recently, I got into a conversation with one of my friends who is TOTALLY and HORRIFICALLY averse to poo, poo talk and possibly even the colour brown due to it’s unfortunate intrinsic link to poo.
During the conversation, she did the unthinkable - she confessed a heinous poo story to us all. She told us that on a previous occasion in the very same bar we were in, she had gone into the ladies loo. Upon leaving the cubicle she lifted up her bag to discover something stuck to the bottom. IT WAS POO! HUMAN POO! Who the hell goes to the loo and poops on the floor? I obviously laughed my arse off because the whole thing made her so embarrassed she couldn’t even talk.
I have also been the lucky recipient poo related novelty gifts such as this one:
Here I would like to share with you some of my personal favourites:
Oh yes, that’s a good one
Lol (but not funny cos he’s dead)
skiddies - yep that’s funny
Although he didn’t make an appearance in this particular book, I do have a celebrity related poo story to share with you all. I was at a house party a few years ago and Jude Law was there. Strange, I know. My friend and I went upstairs to wait for the loo. Whilst outside we were busy saying ‘OH MY GOD! CAN YOU BELIVE JUDE LAW IS HERE! OH-MAHGHAD, OH-MAHGAHD!’. At that moment, the door opened and the man himself stepped out. My friend involuntarily blurted out ‘JUDE LAW!’ in his face. He looked at her and said ‘SCARF GIRL!’ (she was wearing a big woolly one). As he went down the stairs, we burst out laughing and ran into the loo, only to discover that Jude had been doing a BIG OLE CELEBRITY POOP in there. My friend then started yelling ‘I SMELT JUDE LAW’S POO! I SMELT JUDE LAW’S POO! I was slightly worried about writing this story in the blog as I thought he might have me done for defacation… I mean DEFAMATION! oops
The same friend once shared that her Nana had told her she really likes that ‘Leonard DiCrapio’ which obviously had us in fits of laughter and led us to see how many of his films we could ‘shitify’ including, but not limited to:
On that note, I wanted to leave you with this……
URGH! DON’T BE GROSS! It’s a rum soaked banana wrapped in a leaf that we ate in Bali. It does look like poo though doesn’t it!? AND THAT IS FUNNY!
Do you have any hilarious poo related stories to share?
Have I gone too far this time?
Rum soaked banana anyone?
Love, Sazpoo x
I’m bloated, I’m sun burnt and I’ve just been to Underwater World at Hilliary’s Boat Harbor. That can only mean one thing - Christmas in Australia! Strewth Mate, let’s grab some pigs ears and root some sheila’s!
Jokes aside, it has been wonderful to be home. Not much has changed which is always comforting. The cat - Lord Byron is a little fatter and less able bodied (Mum keeps screaming that he’s 18 this year and should be left to live out his twilight years in any state of obesity that he chooses). Mum and Dad also got an inflatable German Jacuzzi for the garden which is getting used excessively. Apart from that everything is reassuringly the familiar.
Mum wanted to do something really special with Byron……..
JOKES! That’s not Byron silly! That’s actually animal cruelty which I don’t condone.
This is the furry bugger
GOTCHA AGAIN. That’s a Quokka! Native inhabitant of Rottnest Island…innit
OK this is really him - THE LORD OF BYRON. Even the way he delicately places his paws is REGAL nay?
As I landed on Christmas day and was still delirious, we decided to celebrate Christmas on Boxing day. I don’t need Jesus’s birth dictating when I celebrate bloody Christmas after all! This year Christmas was around at Italian Dad’s place. There are two Dad’s which is a little confusing so let’s call Australian Dad ‘Dad’ and Italian Dad ‘Marco’. That is his name, so it stands to reason.
We loaded up the car and headed over to Marco’s for our belated Christmas celebrations. Upon arrival, I hopped out of the car to see Marco’s partner Gillian. Gillian was putting the bins out when we arrived and Mum later said to her ‘Gillian, I didn’t know who Sara was talking to when we got here. I wondered how she knew the cleaner, but it was you!’. Always tactful.
It wasn’t long before the family album came out including some pictures of my Mum holding me as a baby with hair that places her squarely as the long-lost white, ginger, female member of the Jackson 5.
Mum, Dad and I headed off home later in the evening feeling full and merry on the drive home. We stopped to look at some exceptional examples of Christmas lights on houses when Mum announced, ‘I hate bloody Christmas Carols’. The festive spirit was alive and well!
For New Years eve, the family was rounded up again at Marco’s place. On the drive over Mum, Dad and I got talking about childrens names. NO PRESSURE THEN!
Mum: I like Ruby
Me: Everyone’s called Ruby nowadays
Me: Some names just don’t suit babies
Dad: Yeah like Sue. Sue’s a cleaners name. Do you want your child to be a cleaner?
Dad: And Daisy, Daisy’s a cleaner’s name too
Mum: Ruby, I like Ruby
Me: What sort of dog should I get (seamless segue away from the children conversation)
Dad: A Schnoodle
The last time I spent New Years Eve with family was when I was too young to independently acquire booze. This New Years Eve brought all the family together and I mean ALL the family. It brought them together in a way that you’d never really hope or wish for them to be brought together. We were instructed to arrive at 5pm at which time were handed a nice cold glass of bubbly. By 8pm everyone was hot, irritable, a little sweaty and definitely drunk. By 10pm we were all wondering if midnight would EVER actually come.
I had made the mistake of going to the beach earlier in the day and applying less than a suitable amount of sunscreen. The result was bright red legs which were burning like flames under my dress all night. I was GAGGING for Aloe Vera but alas there was none to be found. As the conversations were getting more heated around the table - in the way that drunk family conversations tend to get, I struggling to sit in my seat without hurting my sun burn and seriously considered immersing myself in a bath of Jelly for relief!
Here I am trying to look happy for a photo, but what my face really says behind the smile is FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRKKKKKKKKK MY LEGS AND ARSE FEEL LIKE THEY’RE IN THE BURNING DEPTHS OF HELL!
More, food, more booze, more bad jokes. FINALLY the countdown. I managed to miss it while I was in the loo but had another glass of bubbly purely for celebratory purposes.
We pulled back into the drive at around 2am - Mum was the designated driver so she only had one bottle of champagne and 6 tinnies- JOKES! As we got out of the car we heard a screech and turned around to see the newspaper delivery van hooning onto the driveway. A rolled up copy of the West Australian was hurled from the window and missed Mum’s head by centimeters. Dad and I discussed how funny it would be if Mum had ended the night concussed on the driveway by a newspaper.
So all in all, it was a successful Christmas mission!
How was everybody else’s Christmas!?
Any drunk Uncles get naked!?
Have you or anyone you know ever been hit in the head by a rolled up newspaper?
Happy New Year and lots of LUUUURVE! (that sounds like sexy love, but it’s just general festive love)
For anyone who has been hanging on the edge of their seats since my last blog post about being hypnotized to overcome my fear of flying - firstly I’m very sorry it’s been so long between posts. If you were actually hanging your buttocks off the edge of a seat in anticipation of my next instalment, then you have probably got very sore cheeks and am very pissed off with me. You might even have lost your job as you’ve been so busy being on the edge of your seat rather than being at work. In addition and as a result of your cheek dangling, you might also have to have an arse transplant and I am VERY sorry about that but you can’t hold it against me forever like some sort of sore, old, saggy arse!
I can now reveal, IT DIDN’T BLOODY WORK! The hypnotism. I really wanted it to, but it didn’t. On the plus side, I seem to really like Turkish food and tartan.
Now, I can’t blame it entirely on the poor quality of the hypnotism. A big part of being a cool, calm collected chick on a plane is in the preparation. You could say, I didn’t really give myself a chance in HELL!
I therefore blame it on the following:
2. Large Pizza’s:
When you order a large Pizza from room service at 10pm and THIS monstrosity turns up and you attempt to eat quite a lot of it’s cheesy, doughy goodness before a 5am start, you are asking for BIG DIGESTIVE TROUBLE
3. Broken Beds
When you have to conduct a full renovation on the bed in your hotel room the night before the flight because it’s buggered. When you lay down, it folds you in half and you are then sucked down into it’s shitty centre like quicksand. This makes you have a very bad sleep and feel very gumpy at 5am when your alarm goes off.
4. Paint Fumes
When your hotel room wreaks of paint fumes and you wake up during the night feeling delirious and sick from the large pizza plus you’ve been entirely enveloped in the quicksand bed - you feel quite shitty.
5. Luton Airport
When after paint fumes, shit bed and Luton, there are lots of people dressed in bright orange yelling things in your face at 5.30am like’ AAAAAAARRRRREEEE YOUUUUUUUUU GOOOOOOOOIIIIIING TO MADRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIID?’ and ‘GET IN THIS QUEUE NOW!’, ‘TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF’, ‘YOU DIDN’T PAY TO CHECK THIS LUGGAGE IN, GIVE US MORE MONEY NOW!’ ‘MOVE OVER THERE!’, and just a lot of general ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGH’ in your tired, little, gumpy face, it really doesn’t get things off to a good start at all.
*This wasn’t the actual staff in the airport. These people are happy and smiley with big, novelty size hands. The staff that morning were WAY more terrifying
6. Easyjet Pilots
When you board the plane and the pilot isn’t wearing a proper uniform but instead, what looks like a high-vis vest. This makes you shit yourself.
When the pilot says that you have a ‘glamorous’ crew looking after you, you know that’s 100% bullshit and then wonder what else he’s lying about. eg his qualifications
When you can only see one pilot in the cock pit, then they shut the door and taxi for takeoff. That really makes you shit yourself.
7. No Booze
When you’re flight leaves at 6am, meaning it would be entirely inappropriate to be drunk (unless of course you’re still drunk from the night before and in this case, that wasn’t possible because the amount of pizza I ate, rendered it physically impossible for me to get drunk) you feel pretty dissappointed that you’re sober on a plane.
In my professional medical opinion, I believe that all of the above in some way hindered my ability not to be BLOODY PETRIFIED on the flight.
So, I’m off home to Straaaaya next Friday for a 20 hour - GOD HELP ME!
I’m pretty much out of ideas now
Anyone got any suggestions?
I know, I know. I can hear you now. Not a day goes by without her banging on about her bloody fear of flying. I’m bored of it too, but it won’t bloody go away! My most recent attempt at curing myself was to go to a hypnotist. But before I get onto that, let me tell you about the events leading up to this hypnotism. You’re feeling veeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrryyyyyyyy sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeepyyyyyyyyyy (hopefully not by the dullness of my writing - WAKE UP!)
I had to fly recently to Barcelona for work. I hate flying for work - especially if I’m with people from work, in front of whom it’s important not to shake and sob like a small child. I was travelling alone in this case, so saved myself from humiliation in front of colleagues but of course the strangers around me were still at risk.
I was flying with British Airways which also offers some level of comfort over the budget carriers. I was feeling good on the trip out there. Confident and like I could deal with this! I actually had a pretty good flight. I was sat between two men in suits who looked like they wouldn’t know what to do if I started freaking out, except shuffle uncomfortably in their chairs and staring at their laptop screens thinking ’ make it STOP!’.
I managed to keep my shit together and not freak out. AAALLLLLLLL the way to Barcelona. Granted, I had a Bloody Mary at 9am, but that was really my breakfast and counted as one of my 5 a day.
Following my cool, calm, collected flight behaviour, my brain was convinced I’d been cured. ‘I’m no longer afraid of flying’, I shouted from the rooftops of Barcelona! Or metaphorically to myself while I was sitting in my hotel room painting my toenails. I was pretty god damn pleased with myself.
Then came the return flight. I could feel my anxiety levels building as I arrived at the airport and checked in. I reverted to my trusty remedy in these situations - red wine. I ordered a nice bottle of Rioja and sat, sipping it’s warm goodness whilst I waited for the flight…..and waited……and waited. Hmmmm I was wondering if there was a chance I could sober up by the time they sort the bloody plane out! I could see the plane there, so could only assume there was a technical problem and as such, they should destroy the aircraft immediately and deploy a brand new one to come get us. EASY!
Finally they called us for boarding. As I stood, swaying gently in the queue, a lady from BA was working her way through the crowd telling everybody something. What could it be I wondered. ‘Good evening Madame, we’ll be flying with just the one wing tonight, the other one fell off’, or something equally as CRAZY. She got to me…’Miss, did you hear the announcement about the toilets?’ she asked. ‘No’, I said, wondering what on earth was the matter. ‘There’s problem with them and both toilets will be out of order during the entire flight. Please go now if you need to go’, she instructed me. HOLY SHITBALLS I thought. I have the smalled bladder known to man and had consumed a bottle of wine plus a whole bottle of sparkling water (rehydration is still important when you’re a flying lunatic!). I’ve been known to go for a wee four times during a film, much to the annoyance of my fellow cinema goers.
I bolted off to the ladies and squeezed every last drop I could out. I zipped up and headed to the queue feeling a little apprensive, still concerned that I would have the urge again about 10 minutes into the flight.
We boarded the plane and I took my aisle seat, next to a tall German looking guy. I tried to keep my self together and was breathing deeply as we taxi’d to the runway and took off. The ascent wasn’t too bad. A few bumps, but nothing major. However, as we made our way up across Spain and towards France, the turbulence began. Everything was shaking (mainly me) and I was starting to fall apart. The seatbelt signs came on and we were all told to stay in our seats.
A hostess came past me and stopped, seeing me with my head in my hands. ‘Are you ok Miss?’ she asked. ‘Yeah, I’m just a bit nervous’, I told her. ‘Oh, don’t worry at all. Just a few bumps. Can I get you a drink?’. ‘Yes, two vodka’s please’, I said.
She returned after a few minutes, armed with two mini bottle of vodka and some soda. ‘Would it make you feel better if I told you we have THREE pilots on board tonight’, she said reasurringly. ‘Oh, yes, that does make me feel better, I said, feeling slightly releived by the idea. ‘We have two BA pilots who are very experienced, plus they are training a pilot who has just come over from EasyJet, but don’t worry, he’s not allowed to touch the controls’ she said laughing. I laughed back nervously. ‘And we certainly wouldn’t let him land the plane!!’ she said’ as if this would be the most highly ridicuous thing that’s EVER happened. Any EASYJET pilot, landing an ACTUAL PLANE………like a three year old child driving a tractor. I fly with fucking Easyjet all the time!!!!! Great, good to know their pilots are totally incompetant and can’t even land a fucking plane!!!
My bladder was starting to fill up again and my anxiety levels were going through the roof. The poor man next to me clearly thought I was a drunken mentalist and tried feebly to distract me. ‘If it makes you feel any better, I fly all the time and I never feel comfortable’, he said. Errr, no that doesn’t make me feel better actually. GET ME MORE VODKA!
After one hour and 45 minutes of turbulence and no toilet (I was obviously counting), we finally we landed at heathrow. By this time, I was less worried about plumetting to my death in a fiery wreckage, and more worried about pissing my pants on the plane - a la Gerard Depardeiu! (He seems to be a regular in my blogs these days) I scrurried off the plane and straight the the ladies room where I stayed for some time.
This was it I thought. I need to sort this out. I have a flight booked home to Australia at Christmas and I can’t be acting like a crazy woman for 20 God damn hours! I had to try something. I got the number for a hypnotist who had helped some friends in the past. I’ve never been hypnotised before and didn’t know what to expect, but anything was worth a shot.
I showed up at her office on Harley Street, where we sat talking about my fear. When did it start. What is the feeling like etc etc. She concluded we needed to - in her words ‘do a massive clear-out’. This is not a colonic love, I thought. ‘You’ve got some emotional fears which you’ve linked to flying and we need to disconnect them’ she told me.
Then just as I was about to head over to the sofa and lay down, her phone rang. ‘Oops, I thought I turned that off’ she said apologetically. She was holding the phone very close to her face in a very odd manor - so as not to show me who was calling her. ‘It’s an UBER famous person’ she told me.
Well, that was it, I was totally intrigued. Who could it be? I WANNA KNOW! Then she instructed me to go and lay down on the sofa and relax. At this point, all I could think about was the famous person. I was hoping she might leave the room breifly at some point, giving me the opportunity to look at her phone. STOP! I thought. Stop being a mental case who rifles through the belongings of hypnotherapists to find out who their famous patients are!
She then put me under. It was weird. She was talking in a very slow strange voice, which was kind of humorous and made me want to laugh, but equally relaxing and was clearly having the desired effect. I kept thinking - am I hypnotized?………………… what about now?……………..now?……………….maybe now……………Then I felt like I was spinning. My whole body was like a lead weight, sinking into the couch.
After some time (I’m not sure how long as I seemed to lose all concept of time!) I had an itchy nose. I kept trying to ignore it, but it was infiltrating my hypnotic state and I couldn’t stop wanting to scratch it. Eventually after fighting it for what seemed like 2 hours, I tried to lift my limp heavy arm and scratch my bloody nose. Aaaahhh relief. She brought me back round and told me I’d been under for 40 minutes, which felt like about 10. Freaked me out!
I left feeling like I was drifting dreamily through London, smiling stupidly at strangers. I meandered into John Lewis on Oxford Street and wandered around the cosmetics section being sprayed in the face by over-zealous perfume girls and getting even higher on the fumes! It felt AMAZING!
So……did it work? I will find out on Friday when I fly to Madrid.
If this fails, I might move to my next extreme measure - learn to fly……HIGHLY BLOODY UNLIKELY!
Have you been hypnotized?
Is it possible to get addicted to being hypnotized?
If I talk to my boyfriend while he’s asleep in a funny voice and say ‘buy me a puppy, buy me a puppy, buy me a puppy’ will it work!?
Love HypnoSaz xx
Following the ROARING success of Parts 1 & 2 of my Euro Adventures with Meldie (I’ve been offered a 3-part movie deal), I am DELIGHTED to unveil the final instalment of the series! Don’t wee your pants with excitement will you.
Now, on to Venice - the amazing sinking city with no streets and funny smells aplenty! We arrived on a stinking hot afternoon with our heavy cases at the train station. The first challenge was getting ourselves and our luggage from the train station to the hotel, which on the map wasn’t very far, but in reality was via a maze of steps, bridges and winding little streets. I could feel my stress level’s rising and was having visions of somehow carrying 4 pieces of luggage and my mother through Venice whilst giving myself a hernia.
After an argument with some men who offered to help us with our cases over the bridge and then wanted payment, we arrived in the opulent air-conditioned lobby of the hotel. We were a sweaty mess with our greasy hair stuck to our red faces.
‘Buongiorno Signora’ the woman at reception welcomed us. So far, so good….the hotel was in a perfect location right on the Grand Canal and was cool, quiet and luxurious. We were taken up to our room - a HUGE decadent space with massive bed, high ceilings and what looked like priceless artwork hanging on the walls. Score! I thought. As the man was telling us how to use the air-conditioning and turn the TV on, it dawned on me that this very lovely room was missing one very important thing………. A Bathroom!
‘Errrrr excuse me’, I interrupted the man. ‘Where is the bathroom?’ I said curiously, hoping he would open the wardrobe to reveal some sort of secret, concealed bathroom. ‘Oh yes, the bathroom is upstairs’, he said nervously. ‘Upstairs, as in OUTSIDE the room’, I asked more agitated. ‘Errr, ummm, yes, you booked a room with a private external bathroom’, he said, showing me the minute print on the booking. ‘WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK YOU FUCK!’ I said (in my head, although I think some of the F’s and a small amount of spit slipped from my mouth).
He led us up two flights of stairs to what looked like the roof of the hotel. He opened one door and guided us along a small narrow corridor with no walls, just canvass partitions through which I could see the rooftops of Venice - we were on the bloody roof! Finally we reached the bathroom.
I couldn’t take it, I stormed down to reception, still red, sweaty and frothing from the mouth. ‘This is unacceptable!’ I said to the woman at the desk. ‘Well Miss, you did book the room’ she said smugly. ‘Yes, but my Mum has bad knees and she can’t be going upstairs in the dark at night and it’s not private!’, I insisted. ‘Well it’s very normal to have the bathroom outside the room in most hotels…..and anyway, we have NO other rooms, we are FULLY booked’, she said unconvincingly pointing her finger in my face.
My blood was now boiling and I’m sure I looked like some sort of deranged lunatic. Knowing I’d have no chance of cancelling the room and getting my money back or finding another room, I gave her my last bit of fight ’ Well! We would like some fluffy robes! At least let us have some dignity if we have to walk through the hotel NAKED!’ I snapped and stormed off, huffing and puffing.
After recovering from external bathroom on rooftop-gate, we set out to walk to San Marco’s square where I planned to have a MASSIVE FUCKING CAMPARI and some of those nice salty crisps and nuts they give you.
Aaaah, here I am looking kind of still pissed off……
Awwwww, here’s Mum also looking a little pissed off…….
Here we are being ripped off on drinks and nuts in the square, but less pissed off cos we have booze and salty nuts in front of us……..
I assumed these 3 ladies were English as they were having a Gondola ride with some Bacardi Breezers in hand
After 3 days exploring Venice, we set off for Palermo - Sicilia! This was the flight I was least looking forward to in the whole trip. It was on one of Alitalia’s death-trap planes, which were built in the 70’s, held together with cello-tape and flown by some joker eating a pizza! Naturally, I kakked my daks the whole way down there.
We arrived in Palermo on a humid Sunday evening. Having put the terror of the flight out of my mind, we moved onto the next potentially life-threatening situation - Me driving. On the other side of the road. In Palermo. At night. With no satnav. Yes that’s right people. I had the choice of taking a satnav for a mere €11.00 per day and I said NO! What a FOOL!
My simple instructions to Mum were - ‘Sit still and don’t say and BLOODY WORD’. I could feel her tensing up in the passenger seat and fearing for her life, she did as I said.
We weaved our way through the streets of Palermo, towards the centrewhere we would pick up my friend Andy. Ok, he’s my boyfriend now, oooooooooOOOOOOOOOOooooohhhhhhhhhh……. but this is not a romantic blog so that’s all we will say about that!!
I got lost at least four times. Stopped to ask for directions in broken Italian three times, got called ‘STRONZO!’ by a passing motorists at least twice
stronzo m (plural stronzi)
As if this wasn’t enough, I then got stuck down a narrow alley with a highly irritated driver in front of me that nearly got out and punched me in the face.
Finally we found our way to Piazza Politeama in the centre of Palermo where Andy was waiting, looking the colour of Bill Cosby, after having spent the day at the beach. Andy. He could tell by the combination of terror on our faces and the slight smell of fear in the vehicle, that the journey had been somewhat harrowing. ‘Shall I drive to the house?’ he offered. ‘YES!’ we said in unison!
We drove about an hour out of Palermo towards the house. Starving hungry and dying for a drink of an alcoholic variety we stopped in a little town called Finale and found our way to a Pizzeria. We had lots to catch up on. Andy, who had spent the previous two days exploring Palermo, (mainly sleeping on the top deck of a tour buse) was full of stories of meat so delicious it could only have been unicorn and Arancini so round and tasty that they brought tears to his eyes.
A little kid came over to our wanting to play and flexing his muscles. ‘Eh STRONZO!’ Andy said to the kid, laughing. ‘What the hell are you saying!’ I jumped in. ‘It means ‘strong’ doesn’t it?’, he said. ‘No, it means ‘bastard’ I said! ‘Oh, shit, I’ve been saying it to loads of people since I’ve been here’ he said. The poor kid walked away back to his parents looking slightly upset and a little confused.
After devouring a few tasty pizza’s, we hopped back in the car and headed down to the house. As we traversed the windy roads in the dark, something occured to me. ‘Errr Andy, we’re on the wrong side of the road’ I said, in a surprisingly calm tone (possibly sedated by the wine), just as another car came round the bend straight for us, tooting it’s horn very loudly. ‘SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!’ Mum let out a loud screech from the back seat as we all held on as Andy swerved to the other side of the road……….. So far, so good.
We woke the next day to a view that made it all worth it…aaaaahhhhhhh
We made the most of the first day there by heading straight to the beach to soak up some rays. Whilst relaxing on a sun-bed, a Thai woman was doing to rounds offering massages. ‘Massage…..massage…..massage’ she kept saying in a slightly aggressive tone whilst starting work on some unsuspecting beach goers without their consent.
‘She wants one!’ Andy said to her, pointing to me. ‘No, No I said, not me. No thanks’. ‘Yes! Yes! You say you want massage’ she said excitedly. ‘No, really I’m fine’ I said, getting annoyed. ‘€5 Euro’s, full body’ she said, challenging me NOT to take advantage of this too-good-too-be-true offer. ‘Go on’ Andy said, encouraging her further. Finally giving in, ‘OK Fine!’ I said.
She got to work, covering my entire body in baby oil whilst getting heaps of sand stuck in it which was sort of like an ex foliation. After 20 minutes or so she finished up giving me the obligatory chopping motion all over my back as my face was squished into the sun-bed.
Here she is in full attack mode…….it’s looks gentle but she had the hands of a NINJA!
As it turns out, she also had the negotiations skills of a ninja. I took €5 and some change for a tip from my purse. ‘NO!’ she said, ‘It’s €20!’. ‘What!’ I said confused. ‘You said €5!’. Cheeky bitch. After five minutes of haggling back and forth I think I gave her something like €12. Every bit of muscle tension she had released had returned in the form of anger!
I awoke on our second day on the island to loud banging on the house. I tend not to be a morning person and my poor mum has felt the wrath of my morning grumpiness on MANY occasions over the past 29 years. With my head banging from the vino the night before, I was in a foul mood. I was convinced that Mum was up making loads of noise in the kitchen. When I finally couldn’t bear it any more I stormed out of the room, bleary-eyed, straight for the kitchen where Mum stood innocently - teatowel in hand. ‘Morning’ she said. ‘What the HELL is all the banging!’ I snapped. ‘It’s the wind blowing through the house. It’s stormy outside’ she snapped back.
Unsatisfied with my findings, I strode back to my room, slammed the door, threw myself onto the bed, over-shot the bed and came down, smashing the back of my head on the corner of the bedside table. Shit, instant Karma I thought. I put my hand behind my head only to see it was covered in blood. As was the pillow. Oh fuck, oh fuck, my brain’s leaking out I thought. I emerged from the room to see Mum staring angrily at me. ‘Look Mum’, I said, showing her my hand. ‘I hit my head’ I said, feeling dizzy.
‘Andyyyyyyy’ Mum said looking slightly terrified. ‘Sara’s hit her head and she’s bleeding’. Andy emerged, looking at the back of my head and making strange noises that northern people make. He led me to the bathroom, still bent over forwards in case standing up would cause my brain would fall out the back of my head. He stuck my head in the basin and started running water over it. I could see the water running down the drain RED!
Andy remained calm. ‘Oh, it’s nothing’, he said soberly. ‘Just a bump’. ‘There’s a lot of blood’ I said nervously. ‘Will I need stitches?’, ‘Is it cracked?’. ‘Will I have brain damage?’. So many questions. ‘No, but I think you might end up bald’ he said. HA FUCKING HA!
Following the drama of bleeding-head-gate, Mum was delighted to discover there was a washing machine in the house. This could keep her occupied for hours on end. She set about doing roughly 367 loads of washing. Andy and I took our cue to get out of the way and head down to the garden. I went up to the kitchen an hour or so later to find Mum standing over the washing machine with a puzzled look on her face. Initially assuming she was simply mesmerised by it’s spin cycle, I didn’t say anything. ‘It’s stuck closed love’ she said to me, worried. ‘Just give it time to finish Mum, it’ll open’, I reassured her.
Forgetting all about it, I went back to the garden to soak up some rays. Not long after, Andy then went up to get something from the kitchen. He came back down…’Your Mum thinks the washing machine is stuck closed with her stuff in there’ he said. ‘Yeah, it’ll be fine’ I said dismissing it.
By that evening, the washing machine and it’s refusal to open had been mentioned roughly 745 times in passing by my Mum. Everyone was starting to lose their cool. We were having visions of tossing the bloody machine off the balcony in order to retrieve the valuable contents - some old bra’s and droopy knickers.
Just when we thought all hope was lost and were convinced that the machine was now capable of ruining the final days of our holiday with it’s fucking stubbornness, we heard Andy tinkering around in the laundry and then a ‘POP’. ‘I DID IT!’ he shouted victoriously!
We ran to the room to see a broom handle wedged into one of the buttons on the machine. ‘You have to keep it like that’ he said. Not in the mood to question the odd solution, we rejoiced in the openness of the machine and the glory of Mum’s underwear, which had finally been released from it’s watery gave.
We celebrated that evening with steak, wine, cheese, wine, cheese, wine, cheese, a game of cards and 12 conversations about colonic irrigation.
So, after three long weeks including blood, sweat and tears - quite literally, we came to the end of our glorious holiday.
Did we enjoy it? GOD YES! Would we do it again in a hurry? NO FUCKING WAY!
Mum and I are still on talking terms and the hole in my head seems to be healing over nicely which is good.
On that note, I’m signing off on this little mini-series.
Hope you’ve enjoyed it!
Bonjour! Buongiorno! Ciao! ARGH BITCH!
These are just a few of the things I said in Paris and Lake Garda…
If you missed my last post - Part 1 London & Edinburgh - don’t be a MASSIVE FOOL - Go back and read it immediately! You won’t be sorry. Unless you hate my blog, in which case I suggest you stop reading entirely and never tell anyone of your hatred.
Following our immense adventures in London and Edinburgh, Mum and I set of for the city of romance - HOBART! Jokes, you can CLEARLY see from the image below that I am in fact referring to PARIS!
THIRD STOP - PARIS!
You’ll be pleased to know that the lovely young man that drove us around in this comedy style car, was wearing a stripey t-shirt AND a beret!
We arrived via my most favourite mode of transport - Eurostar! (really anything that’s not a plane can be classified as my favourite). We stepped out of the station in the balmy Parisian afternoon air, only to be verbally assaulted by what can only be described as some sort of tall German lunatic with bits of white spittle in the corners of his mouth. ‘HELP ME! I’m a photographer. Someone has stolen all my equipment, I need €50’ he was yelling at us all in the taxi queue. We all shuffled away uncomfortably yet slightly petrified that if his demands were not met, he would continue to yell more and more hysterically until some of that spittle would fly off and hit us! *shudder*.
After escaping crazy-phony-photographer guy, we jumped in a cab and headed for our hotel in the heart of Saint Germain. Slightly sweaty and already stinking of cigarettes, we pulled up outside the hotel and hauled our luggage inside and down the corridor where we found our very teeny-tiny room. A very teeny-tiny room which as it turned out was situated on the ground floor, right above the Metro line. Needless to say, we were looking forward being rocked to sleep all-night, every- night but the rattling sounds of the Paris underground.
Having been to Paris a couple of times before I felt that perhaps the French were unfairly stuck with the ‘rude’ label. To me, any nation which prides itself on cheese, wine and Gerard Depardieu should be applauded! Not this time unfortunately…..
Let’s not forget Gerard urinated on the floor of a plane and made some SERIOUSLY shit films!
Perhaps it was the heat, perhaps it was my patience wearing ever thinner or perhaps it was that lots of people were really FUCKING rude, but we did find ourselves in a few, shall we say ‘tense’ situations which may or may not have involved yelling and swear words.
The first of these was in the Louvre - only one of the most important sites of artistic endeavour in the whole FREAKIN world. Being the cultured creatures that we are, we arrived, got our tickets, raced to the Mona Lisa, took some photo’s, touched some ancient artefacts, got yelled out and scurried away….ooops.
We kind of thought it would be OK to touch a fountain which was apparently NOT meant to tampered with by tourists. I turned to hear a very stroppy French woman snapping ‘Zis is a Museum! We do NOT touch things in a Museum!’. ‘Oops, sorry’ I said. ‘Yes Madamme, you should be sorry. We would not come to your country and touch things, you must respect our rules’ she shouted. Errrr, well if you want to go to Perth and touch some of our invaluable cultural gems such as the Bell Tower or maybe the Burswood Dome, that’s totally fine love. We shuffled, out like naughty children and may possible be black-listed from the Louvre for life!
Here she is! Very out of focus….
Having clearly failed at the Louvre we thought ‘fuck culture, let’s go shopping’. We headed over towards Galeries Lafayette to stare at stuff we couldn’t afford. We went to jump in a cab and found ourselves on the receiving end of some abuse from an incensed French woman who clearly couldn’t believe that these two moronic tourists didn’t understand the taxi system in Paris.
By this stage tempers were fraying, it was hot, we’d been kicked out of the Louvre and Mum hadn’t done a load of washing more than 24 hours. Not knowing the correct word in French, I opted for English (which I’m sure only served to madden said French woman even further) - ‘BITCH!’ I yelled as she jumped into the cab and saw her face become crimson with rage as the taxi pulled away. Someone get me a FUCKING CREPE!!!
The next day, in an attempt to make up for our cultural Faux Pas at the Louvre, I organised for Mum and I go to the Opera to see Madamme Butterfly. It was a magnificent evening - outside in the open air with not a cloud in the sky. We took our seats ready for the performance to begin. ‘Shit’ mum yelled as she spilled two glasses of champagne over me. I enjoyed the next two hours of operatic bliss, whilst soaked in booze and without any to BLOODY DRINK!
Following the Opera, I decided we should walk to the Eiffel Tower. Mum still hadn’t seen it in all it’s twinkly night time glory and according to my map, it was that far. So we walked……and walked…………and walked. I could see the top of it! ‘Look Mum, it’s just there!’ I said. ‘I’ve got blisters’ she replied. Not one to listen to a word my poor mum says, I forged on…………..and on…………..and on……………..and ON. It was getting late and cold and that FUCKING tower kept eluding me behind corners, then popping out again. ‘Can we just go back to the hotel?’ mum pleaded. ‘No, look, we’re getting closer’ I said. I turned to see Mum’s face which said ‘I don’t give a shit about the bloody tower, I just want to go back to the hotel FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! ‘OK FINE!’ I snapped, defeated. Tower Shmower!!
Our 4th and final day in Paris - It was muggy with a little drizzle in the air. We were heading off to see the magnificent Palace of Versaille! Seriously, Napoleon didn’t do things by halves.That place screams ‘I’M FRENCH AND I HAVE FUCKING PIMPED MY PAD OUT - BOOM!’ *pelvic thrust*
We stopped for breakfast - I wanted a pastry and mum fancied a crépe from the place across the road. We separated and I settled in with my coffee and cinamon pastry. Once I finished I wandered over to Mum who was sat outside the créperie with a concerned look on her face.’What’s up Mum’ I said. ‘I think they have camera’s in the toilet’ she said. ‘Why would you think that?’ I asked. ‘Because when I went for a wee there was this laser beam thing right in my eyes’ she explained tensely. ‘I’m sure it was just a light’, I reassured her. ‘Yes, but then when I came back out the guy at the bar was on a laptop!’. ‘Oh my god! An actual laptop!? Well, that’s it, we should call the police IMMEDIATELY!’ I mocked. ‘Don’t laugh Sara! He was filming that little bastard! she shrieked.
As you can imagine, Mum didn’t let it go all day. Or the next day…. or even yesterday.
FOURTH STOP - LAKE GARDA
After four tumultuous days in Gay Pareee, we set off for Lake Garda in Northern Italy. I don’t know if anyone has ever flown from Paris Beauvis airport, but if you have, you will know that it is actually nowhere near Paris and is also treading a fine line of what could actually be defined as an ‘airport’. It’s more of a cargo hold. We endured a 2 hour coach journey to the airport / cargo hold, a further 30 minutes, re-packing our cases and jamming them into Ryainairs stupid bloody cabbin baggage measurement thingy.
With the impending flight starting to play on my mind and my usual panic stricken pre-flight state beginning to kick in, I thought we should reward ourselves for making it to this god forsaken airport AND knock myself out for purely medicinal purposes by drinking these…
One very large beer THANKS!
We arrived in BELLISSIMO Lake Garda that evening to a very cute, very lovely hotel, run by very nice people - HALLELUJAH! If you haven’t been to the lake, I would highly recommend it. It’s more of an ocean than a Lake - and GORGEOUS, look!
After recovering from the million hour journey from Paris, we awoke the next day and set off to explore the lake. Here’s mum thoroughly enjoying a boat ride or maybe yelling at me for taking a picture. I can’t really remember.
I amused myself by talking to a lovely white swan which I named Alfredo….
After which, I took some time to relax and top up the tan down by the water. I ended up next to an English couple who were swimming with their small son. The poor thing was obviously wearing one of those super-duper absorbent nappies and the whole bloody thing had expanded to the point that the poor kid could barely keep his balance.
The parents noticed and started laughing hysterically. ‘That’s bordering on cruelty’ the husband said to the wife as they helped the poor little fella out of his accidental flotation device. I turned to them laughing and said ‘Baby got Back’. They laughed unconvincingly and left……….
That’s all for this week! Tune in next week for Venice and Sicily