NightSwimming. (Me, Dave, and the cast of Chicago.)

She locked me in the toilet.

It was not fun.

Last night while staring with unbridled rage at the back of the Irish One’s innocent, unknowing and gently slumbering head, while trying unsuccessfully to get to sleep, my brain (which clearly hates me) seized the moment and escorted me on a not- so magical -mystery tour of my youth.

In all honesty I was seconds away from venomously flicking this bruise that currently lives on the back of the Irish Ones neck, such was my frustration and jealousy at his peaceful sleeping form (and in all honesty I hate that he swans off to play football, so it serves him right for getting a bruised neck, he’s lucky I haven’t punched it, its big enough to have it’s own name) so it was probably best that my attention was averted away by my brain (the brain that still clearly hates me) on to yet more memories I had long forgotten.

Insomnia at it’s best ladies and gentlemen.

Like he hasn’t been through enough, bless his little Leprechaun socks, my subconscious must have been thinking.

But ‘Thwack!’

Just imagine how great it would feel to flick it though!

Then I could totally pretend I had done it in my sleep, or even better! Just deny it ever happened at all, with a casual and groggy ‘what? You must have been dreaming honey but I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU WOKE ME UP!’

I could pretend I was in Chicago the musical and burst in to song! (You know! Like in the Cell Block Tango? ‘I DIDNT DO IT!’ I could sing,  ’He ran in to my finger! He ran in to my finger, 9 times!…’ actually forget that. That sounds a lot ruder than I wanted it to… we aren’t that kind of couple… I mean there have been times when I… you know what? Lets move on.)

Oooo just thinking about it is making me grin. (The musical…)

Ahhh nighttime frolics, how times have changed. (Ahem.)

Anyway.

Bruise flicking aside, I am actually, usually quite a nice person, honest.

This leaves me unsure at to why my brain decides to regularly torture me for hours on end, when I am ravenously desperate for sleep, with dragging me on silent but very painful journeys, jam packed with my biggest regrets, most embarrassing moments and greatest and most horrifying adrenalin pumping life memories.

Dave. Dave is what the bruise should be called.

Insomnia is too calm a word to describe not being able to sleep.

Who comes up with these names?

Maybe I should apply for a job doing that.

In honesty there is a fair few I would change.

Insomnia being the first, I would immediately change it to Headfucknia.

I would also change the spelling of diahhorea diahorrea diaherria diahorria, (case and point)! And change it to Bumburnsplateria.

Anyways.

I assume that this particularly high voltage memory came as a courtesy aperitif to what will no doubt be tonight’s action packed main course of fuel jammed adrenalin anxiety 4am deliberations.

On Sunday we are flying to Spain.

Those who know me, will know I hate flying almost as much as I hate Dave the bruise.

Yes, Dave suits him.

My house wont be empty though, for any would be amateur burglars out there, no it won’t be empty at all, it will be full of massive burly German Shot putters wearing lederhosen and weedy but clearly dangerous mafia types in trilby hats all smoking cigarettes and whispering about their collection of guns and knives and er, stuff. I am having these house sitters flown in from… well… Germany and Russia…. to er… protect all the valuable foot tearing toy trains and cars and… Shall we move on?

DON’T BURGLE MY HOUSE. Seriously, it’s not a healthy place for feet.

Anyway, during this particular memory, I was flying home to visit my father for his 50^th birthday.

I had glandular fever and was pissed off.

Not just because I had glandular fever but also because…no it was mainly because I was stuck on a plane and had bloody glandular fever.

Me feeling hopelessly dizzy, dopey and rough, of course meant this trip was bound to involve a hefty amount of embarrassment for me and of course, a dopey, ditzy, and not very apologetic flight attendant.

The very same flight attendant that ended up locking me in a tiny toilet coffin (did I say coffin? I meant… well… coffin) at 800 million feet above sea level.

As if being stuck on a fuselage attached to two enormous steel gasoline and match holders, cleverly designed to look like safe engines at that height wasn’t bad enough, I was now trapped in a cubicle with a loud swooshing hole that dropped the poop out.

‘I can’t get out!!’ I had screamed, upon hearing a lock clunk from the outside and dropping a big one.

I never lock toilet doors, just to be clear, on account of being incredibly anxious in small spaces thanks to being scarred for life by Virgin trains and their electronic door invention, which resulted in me being trapped in a shit stinking toilet from Manchester to Brighton for 7 hours (!!!) at the age of 25. (And if that wasn’t bad enough, I was on my way to visit a potential boyfriend at the time, And let me tell you, no amount of channel number 5 masks the stench of sweat, cheap bleach and condensed commuter poo. Marilyn Monroe clearly never traveled on a ding a long, or whatever those swinging trains are now called…)

Anyway, back to my memory.

I had immediately, still sat in the squatting and weeing position kicked the flat of my feet up on to the offending door, to check what I had just heard was in fact the sound of prison.

The door, much to my disappointment, and most likely the relief of the people sat in the first few crushingly tight rows, did not open.

‘Let me out!!’ I screamed jumping to my feet and banging on the door still mid wee but so much blood rushing to my ears I swear I may have blacked out momentarily.

With my voice having been ravaged by my aching glands, my breath coming out in raspy glandular spurts and with the wee running cold down to my ankles I tried not to cry  ‘I didn’t lock the door but now I can’t get out!!’ I howled.

‘I know!!’ what must have been the orange shiny faced flight attendant yelled back relatively calmly from behind the metal door, ‘I locked it for you. Twas left open.’

‘I know!’ I now shrieked trying to steady myself and banging my elbows off every available surface in the process, ‘I know!’

What felt like an eternity of turbulence passed and when nobody responded I began to hammer on the door again and tried to push it open with all the puny feverish strength I could muster.

‘I am agoraphobic!’ I begged pathetically loudly to 245 passengers ‘ please UNLOCK the door, unlock it, unlock it, oh please god unlock it!’

‘Your agoraphobic?’ came the female voice again ‘Well you should be alright in there then, it’s tiny.’ She sounded confused.

‘NO!’ I had shouted now at full force. ‘Let me out!!!!’

‘Just unlock the door.’ She had calmly whispered back in her Liverpudlian accent. ‘You’re being very loud. It is simple. Just unloccccchhhkkkk the door from the insiiiide.’

In an immediate whirlwind, I grasped at the lock, slid it to the unlock position and with the force of a highly steroidal midget body builder, burst out of the cubicle like a hot rat out of a saucepan.

A hot semi naked rat, out of a saucepan, that was also covered in urine and shaking like a shitting dog.

A hot semi-naked rat covered in urine and shaking like a shitting dog who had just inadvertently mooned, front bum and back bum, 75 rows of skint Malaga to Manchester holiday makers.

The bastards actually applauded.

Oh the shame.

‘AGORA-PHOBIC’ I had stuttered directly in to her face, trying desperately to salvage any pride that may have remained, while hurriedly trying to pull up my jeans and hide my face, as well as ignore the horrified gasps coming from the old man sat in seat 1A, who got so close at one point he nearly got a bite of my left cheek instead of his soggy salad, ‘is actually a fear of not being able to escape.’

‘Oh.’ She had retorted blankly ‘I thought it was a fear of open spaces. How do you get on in lifts then?’

I don’t really remember much from here as I actually did black out and was escorted off the plane and in to the arms of a mustached Spaniard supporting a first aid box (we landed first) but I do remember that air stewards face very well and so help me god if I ever see her again… (I’ll go bright red and wish for the ground to swallow me up whole.)

It really was as simple as that, one minute I had been lying in bed not flicking any bruises and the next minute… well I was still in bed but on the back of that memory my heart was pounding and I was literally curled under the duvet in shame.

Bloody insomnia.

Bloody glandular fever.

Bloody Virgin trains.

Oh I was curled up like a donut!

Not for long though.

I’m resilient; I soon went back to staring at but not flicking Dave and planning and stressing out about my wedding. (He hasn’t asked yet, but you know, I am sure he will! I am such a catch!)

On Sunday we go to Spain.

We are travelling back to my birthplace!!

(I wasn’t actually born there, I was actually born in Rochdale but that’s wholly beside the point, I should have been born in Spain and totally would have been too if it wasn’t for the fact my mum and dad lived in Rochdale at the time of my birth… )

I won’t be using the toilet on the flight unsurprisingly and plan on fashioning instead an adult size pair of pull ups out of a bandana and 25 Tena lady’s first thing Sunday morning right before I down 3 diazepam, 6 anti depressants and a bag of square crisps.

(The square crisps are just in case I never get to eat any again.)

I do realise this cocktail will undoubtedly ensure I miss Addison’s excitement at being so close to a plane and not being a drooling blob (he was 9 months last time) and I am sure, like his daddy (and Dave) he will love flying, but alas, it will be the only way I will make it through.

Wish the Irish one luck.

I won’t need it.

I will be off my face before we even leave terra firma.

I better apply for a passport for that bruise, as it’s probably going to spread somewhat.

God love Dave.

He’s part of the family.

(… And he’s got it coming…he’s got it coming…)

I love me a good musical.

MammyWoo’s guide to Tot Traveling.

God I hate flying.

If I could, I would never step foot on a big metal bird ever again and would travel everywhere by boat (with champagne in my hand and my hair blowing in the wind.)

I hate everything that is involved with taking to the skies, but nothing terrifies me more than the fact that for 2 and a half hours at any given point, my quaking bones will be at the very minimum, a midgie’s dick away from the final frontier and a midgie’s forskin away from potentially plummeting 32 godzillion feet to my untimely and not very romantic death.

It is not the actual death bit that scares me, because I figure, wherever I was before I was born I was fine, it is more the plummeting part that puts the fear of god up me.

You have to admit. Flying is not natural. Flying is shit and I am shit at flying.

It’s a means to an end though, and if i can happily sit and speak to thousands of people I don’t know on my iphone, then I must also accept and deal with the fact that I will have to fly every now and again.

I am a strong woman. Honest.  So I will cope.

This week started with me sitting on a Goodfella’s pepperoni and will end with me mounting a bird of death to Spain, to visit my dad and the various wild animals and hairy Spanish murderers (all lurking in the undergrowth) dotted around his colonial style Spanish finca which literally sits on top of a beautiful mountain in the middle of nowhere.

If we were just a little bit richer and a little bit famous, we could probably build a bouncy castle type landing pad on top of his balcony (not the bit with the turret) and just parachute out of the plane and right in to his living room, instead of having to endure the shaky, achy decent on to the runway of doom in to Malaga. (I hate take off and landing and the bit in between, come to think of it, the most.)

Unfortunately though, I have bled my father’s bank account dry over the last year (thanks dad, love you!)  and as I am not famous at all, (unless you count the time I fell off the stage, exposing myself, at the chinese karaoke) the theme park esque landing pad will have to be put on hold for now. (Maybe when we win the lottery eh? )

That said, I love visiting my dad, I love going home, (when I lived there we lived in a trendy, hustling, bustling town further up the coast, but when I left papaaa went local and decided to move the family home to el campo where he now spends his time gardening, spotting wild boar, wearing plaid shirts and ringing me for advice about how to download ‘stuff’ like that ‘angry bird shit’ from ITunes. Although it has to be said, his landscape garden is absolutely beautiful and his quality of life is enviable) and finally I love watching Addison spend quality time with granddad.

Addison adores his granddad almost as much as I do and I can’t wait to spend a week laughing and enjoying the company of my three favourite men. Unfortunately Doodle will be staying here so our matching poodles will not get to cavort in the sun together. (Matching poodle’s are the ultimate accessory.)

After my last visit to Spain which involved amongst other things, me forgetting the word for nappy (panales!) and having to play charades with an unsuspecting commuter at 8 in the morning (1 word, 2 sylables, mime having a poo.) I have put together a list of things; you simply must do if you are travelling abroad for the first time with your new child.

MammyWoo’s guide to travelling with a tot, if you will.

1)      Don’t do it unless you absolutely have to.

2)      If you can go by boat then please lend me your boat so I can go by boat too.

3)      On arriving at the airport don’t announce to your partner, you have in fact, forgotten the changing bag. This will only enrage your travelling companion and cause massive argumentus errupticus over international waters.  Just buy a new bag in the departure lounge; it isn’t like he is going to notice!

4)    Squeeze baby’s tummy gently so he/she poo’s before you get on the plane.  (JOKE!) Aeroplane toilets are designed by people with no elbows so take a plastic knife.

5)      Hack your own elbows off with the plastic knife during takeoff, in preparation for in-flight flatulence and follow through. (The baby’s, not yours.)

6)      Take toys your baby has never seen before, this will keep him entertained for at least 12 seconds before the screaming begins. (Yours not his.)

7)      Unwrap the toys before you get on the plane as asking for ‘a knife to slice the twiddly bits of my box’ may alarm the homosexual (but fabulous) air steward.

8)      Take a local language phrase book. Learn the word for ‘fucking hell’ and ‘bollocks’ so that people know to get out of your way when you begin to lose the plot.

9)      Never give a six month old a prawn. (BELIEVE ME.)

10)   Make sure you take enough formula to last the duration of the holiday. If you have never breastfed, massaging your tiny boobs in a desperate attempt to produce milk, will only serve to send the wrong message to your partner and ultimately your baby will still be starving after you have fought him off.  

11)   Never say yes to sex until he has promised you at least an hour, of child free sunbathing.

12)   Always find out where the nearest Dr’s office is for any eventuality including but not limited to; 

• Severe sunburn.
• Severe annoying tendency illness (The Irish One not me.)
• Gastro enteritis (the Baby.)
• ‘A bad stomach’ (the Irish One.)
• ‘The shits.’ (me.)
• ‘Get out of my house you smelly bastards’ (my dad.)

And finally;

BUY A TOTSEAT FROM BABY LOVES SHOPPING!! Some of the high chairs over there are dodgy as hell! Do I want to tie my baby in to that hammock using string and an old Labrador? Er, no gracias.

See you on the other side people. I love you long time.

Are you ready for some babysitting dad?

Una cerveza porfavor!

From 360000 feet with love…

It is so bumpy, this flight!!!

There have been moments, over the last half an hour, where I have been on the very precipice of a real life, lose the plot, screaming, shouting, throwing myself on the floor and begging the pilot to land, panic attack. (Yes, I hear you gasp in shock. It really isn’t like me!)

I have informed the Irish one if this turbulence continues, they will need to let me off the plane. I need to get off this plane. This fear is awful. Terrifying even. (Not right at this moment like, as I’ve had two beers and I am undeniably calmer. I have learnt in the most recent past on a night involving a lot of darkness, a mountain and an axe murderer hiding in the undergrowth, that with a beer, most things are easier to handle.) But earlier on,  post Stella Artois, I was totally serious.

The Irish one, being as pragmatic as he usually is, just looked at me and said  ‘please do NOT TELL the air hostess you are in labour or something. You do not look pregnant. That woman was bang out of order, and you had just had a whopper.’ (Some Spanish bint in burger king was busy fondling Woo when she turned to her husband and professed how brave i must be to be pregnant again so soon. I speak Spanish. This little tete a tete did not end well.) And damn it he knows me too well.

Another beer then.

It is bumpy now. Holy hell it is bumpy now. Did I mention I am drinking beer to calm me down? It seems to be working so much better than lavender oil.  I am a whole decade calmer than I was an hour ago, plus I can see land and for some reason that totally puts my mind at ease.

Let’s not start to question how absurd that notion is right now. We can examine that when my feet are firmly placed back on Mancunian tarmac.

Right now all I want to do is ensure Woo stays asleep and my over pumping, harassed and confused, medicated heart does not flop out of my mouth and land with a wet splat and a warm thud on Addison’s forehead. (I would also like to ensure the plane doesn’t , well, you know, I can’t actually bring myself to utter the words i hear so often on air crash investigation at 36000 feet. (Mental note to self stop thinking about air craft investigation) but needless to say that one is out of myyyyyyy bloody control.) Fuck it is bumpy. I Bet we are over France. Even French air space is hostile towards me. (I swear the French, yes the whole nation, hate me. I worked there for six months in 2002 and made many enemies, few friends. It had a lot to do with my being English and nothing to do with me thinking ‘Zut alors! On coule! Was a good conversation opener! Damn tricolore GSCE French! )

Quick look out the window… yup, I can still see land.

Another beer please.

The time should be 6.15 pm as we have an entire hour left of this death flight. Instead, the time at the top of my (switched to death flight mode) Iphone reads 2.15am, as Monarch delayed us by a year and a half, to carry out routine maintenance on this very aircraft (of death.)  I don’t mind so much the delay. It was the fact Burger king closed too early and by the time i was hungry again i couldn’t have another whopper (baby) implanted in my belly. Also the El Starbuckso shut at 8pm. Which is ludicrous. Absolutely ludicrous. I shall be writing a letter of complaint.

My holier than though, buzzy bee, hackney knee, all things sweet and sour, VERY BLOODY BUMPY JAHAYSUS IT IS BUMPPPYYYYY. The seatbelt sign has been on and off once already. I bet it comes on again now. That is never good. They should change the please fasten your seatbelt sign to; there is a damn fine chance we are about to plough in to the side of a mountain please sit down sign, at least that would be more honest. And you could prepare, say your last goodbye’s etc

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. It is bumpy. Some woman once told me when I felt the fear like this I should picture myself somewhere that makes me calm. Picture yourself in a calm, loving, stress free environment she said. An environment that makes you happy.

I am having a lie in curled up with Doodle.
I am having a lie in curled up with Doodle.
I am having a lie in curled up with Doodle.
I am thin.
I am thin.
I am thin, 

What?! It’s my bloody projection!

There is also a mountain of Swiss chocolate.
There is also a mountain of Swiss chocolate.
There is also… oh who am I kidding?

Another beer please!

Still bumpy.

The Irish one has fallen asleep. If this bumpiness gets any worse i shall have to wake him with a swift sharp jab to the nether regions. (And not the ones we are currently flying over!)

I thought it was only supposed to be Ryan Air that had turbulence this bad for god sake! (If you don’t believe me, ask anyone who has been on a Ryan air flight and they will  no doubt, readily regail you with horror stories of Irish turbulence. A Ryan air flight could turn a seasoned pilot to a lump of quivering mess, I am sure of it. I can only assume this is because, A) the flights are so cheap they completely cut a corner, because they cannot afford not to, and miss out the entire semester of flight school that includes how to fly smoothly, or B) more likely because the fact they are in fact pilots, they are too busy shagging slutty scouse air hostesses at 23000 feet to give a shit about, you know, their passengers, being shaken about like a jelly on a thigh master. But hey ho! It’s not like i am bitter or anything. (If you have no idea what i am going on about. That is probably for the best. But feel free to read my earlier post about bumping in to an ex. That should explain it all in perfect detail. Oh and if you do read it, my boobs don’t leak anymore either. So yes, it does stop.)

OH MY GOD I CAN’T SEE LAND!

Where the hell has the land gone? How can land just disappear? That is ridiculous. Oh my god it is soooooo bloody bumpy. I will have to write a letter of complaint.

Oh for the love of god.

Addison just followed through in his sleep (I am shocked I haven’t joined him, and I cannot say I blame him) but I am unable to move from the seat to go and sort the situation as the seat belt sign is back on and last time I checked I still had elbows, so this woman on my left can stick her nose up all she wants, but the smell will have to stay. (Ok, I may have pumped once or twice.)

On the upside I have had a fantastic fortnight, so if I plummet to my death now, at least I will have gone out on a high.

Addison got his first tooth.
I survived a night with an axe murderer.
Addison learnt to walk instead of bounce.
I sprained my wrist.
Addison saw the sea for the first time.
I ate my body weight in prawns.
Addison sat in a forward facing car seat for the first time.
I suddenly developed car sickness and had to sit in the front. (Sleep ploy!)
Addison got gastroenteritis.
I had a screaming fit in my sleep.
Addison had the time of his life.
I had the most wonderful christmas I have had in a very long time.
Addison got to know his granddad.
I already knew he was the best.

And last, but not least I got 12 hours sleep on my first post partum night out. (I Had to mention it again. I am still thrilled by this, even if by now it seems like a distant memory.)

I should probably be trying to sleep now instead of writing this note, but I can’t. I am too stressed out, and besides we should be landing soon.

ARGHHHH yes. I have to go.

The plane is dropping! And with it my arse!

But where is the runway?

WHERE IS THE RUNWAY?!?!?!?!
THERE IS AN AXE MURDERER ON THE RUNWAY!!!!

I am at home, I am thin, I am drinking a vanilla latte.
I am at home, I am thin, I am drinking a vanilla latte.
I am at home, I am thin, I am drinking a vanilla latte.

My last holiday review before baby! The Maldives.

My trip to Hakura Huraa before baby…

Sitting at work on a gloomy day I jumped in the deep end and booked a holiday to the Maldives on a travel agent website. What? I was miserable and it was raining! (This was the reasoning for spending £3000 I gave to my long suffering boyfriend on returning home from work. He was less than impressed until I showed him where we were going!!)

3 months later after surviving on beans, bread and rice (not all together) so we could afford to go we boarded the 11 hour flight to Male. (by the way – when typing in Male on Google to see pictures of where you are going please ensure you type in the ‘island of Male’ otherwise you get very different results!!! Not great when you have your boss waiting to see pictures of where you are going and a big willy pops up!- so to speak)

 We flew with Monarch and you know what? It was ok. Ample leg room – even in economy – and good service. Im quite frightened of flying so when we do go away it has to be worth it – they were great – the entertainment was ok – other than there being no screen in your seat – and the pilot must have been good cos their were no bumps at all! Smooth sailing! I had three seats to myself because it was quiet so we just spread out! BONZA! The next step of the journey was the sea plane. Maldivian Air Taxi – sorry. Again , im a nervy flyer. No need. Smooth, amazing and the pilots are quite entertaining. They fly bare foot and seem happy. Well – you would be wouldn’t you? The plane takes about 40 minutes. But the views you see! W.O.W. – The colours are amazing. The novelty of the sea plane will just never wear off.

Landing at Hakurra the word paradise does this island no justice. Its like Paradise magnified by 100 and then X2. Crystal clear water. Blue and white. Soft soft sand – peaceful. Private – just lush. It’s a tiny island. You can walk round it in 10 mins easy. Watch out for the hermit crabs though! I stood on one – I felt so guilty I spent about 10 mins apologising and trying to find it a new shell. It was not impressed and I felt rotten all day. But that’s just me.

 The weather in December on the internet said sunny. This was not strictly true. The sun certainly did not have his hat on. He was in bed in a grump. Every now and again the sun would peep out from behind the clouds but it certainly wasn’t playing. We still got uber brown though- we perfected the art of cloud bathing. The few days where the sun did grace us with its presence it was so hot we had to keep nipping inside so to be honest the clouds were a welcome sight most of the time. I would stick with factor 25 and above at first. I have olive skin courtesy of greek daddy and even in the clouds I was feeling the burn with a 25 on. My fella burnt his eyelids (go figure) with a 30 on – so for a week everyone thought I was dating a man in pink eye shadow. Not the best look.

 The island is surrounded by a moat. No – not a moat – a lagoon. You see the most amazing things bobbing about.(and I don’t mean the kind of stuff you see bobbing about in blackpool) Little reef fish – big reef fish – tiger fish – lion fish – jelly fish (not so keen) – sharks ( ‘nothing to panic about madam they wont bite’ as I come running out of the lagoon screaming like a banshee), small crabs , medium crabs , crabs as big as your head, sting rays , manta rays , puffer fish and Nemo. There is just constant activity in the water and it’s fabulous. The day trips are not all inclusive. But they are well worth doing. Most prices range between 35 – 70 dollars. The snorkelling safari I strongly recommend if you’re in to that kind of thing, and even If your not I say do it. It’s incredible. For a first time snorkeler it was just amazing to see under the water. The gear is first class once you figure out how to stop it leaking and misting up – ‘spit madam – spit’. They take you to three reefs and it’s spectacular. We saw turtles and every kind of reef fish imaginable. (Well every reef fish I ever imagined – but I didn’t spend lots of time imagining so I enjoyed it).

The deep sea fishing was a hoot. In my mind I pictured us on a big white yacht with leather seats sipping champagne and looking thin (I always imagine myself looking thin) but it was a far cry away from that let me tell you – (boat wise not body mass wise) You go on a ‘Doni’. Picture a caravan on water and you’ll nearly be there. The Doni never stops moving and you are given bits of wire and gardening gloves. Funny as can be and so clever. They use fish guts as bait and you never stop moving. Everyone caught something (except one who claims he was trying not to be cruel so left them where they were). We caught a barracuda and the other couple caught a ‘big Maldivian fish’. (this was what we were told it was… ahh ok.) Word to the wise. If you get easily sea sick – deep sea fishing is NOT for you. Its like sitting on a plank of wood on a see-saw. I’ve never seen so many shades of green and that was just on my boyfriends face. Social suicide to puke over the boat. On the deep sea excursion though we also saw dolphins and two turtles giving each other a piggy back. (ahem).

The evening entertainment in the bar is great. Bingo , crab racing (funny funny funny), acrobats and DJ ranga. The music is a bit loud (and I like to think of myself as fairly young) so if you do get chatting you usually have to shout to each other. Embarrassing if you are having a private conversation and the music stops just as you scream ‘rash’. not that that happened to me you understand.

 The word that springs to my mind when I think of the food is – spicy. Even having a bacon butty in the morning was blow your mouth off spicy. Figured out towards the end of the holiday the ketchup has chilli in it so that’s probably why I was gasping for water after every meal. Seriously though. The food is exquisite. So much to chose from – most cooked in front of you by the friendliest smiliest (no smelliest. Smiliest) waiting on staff ever – and for someone who gets ill from eating well done steak I was pleased to say I wasn’t ill once. They take hygiene very seriously. It was a welcome result.

There are birds everywhere too – crows – watch your food with the crows. They are not shy about nicking your donuts at snack time. (Which by the way is at 4.30 in the bar) And don’t panic too much if you hear screaming. (You’ve not been transported in to a 1960’s horror flick) it’s just the neighbourhood birds. (‘Madam calm down’)

They do dinner on the beach for 100 dollars. It’s very romantic if your boyfriend isn’t in a mood. (Only kidding honey) And definitely worth doing.

The Spa is out of this world and if you’re the kind of girl that needs pampering then walk about 3 feet from your bungalow and get pampered up duck! Pedicure manicure, aloe vera scrubs , coffee scrubs , Indian head massage (not for people who are head sore) , sweeeedish massage – lots to keep you going! And all done in amazing surroundings. However beware of coconuts falling on to the roof, they are loud and if your half way through a relaxing massage they can give you a shock (she says pushing her hernia back in).

All in all I would give this island 21 out of 10 and I would love to go again. They say it’s a three star but it’s so much more in my mind. You see I just can’t picture novotel arranging your bedding in the shape of a heart and surrounding it with flowers. I mean they might but I doubt it… There is no pool but it doesn’t matter. The water sports are fairly limited but the ones they have are great fun.

The staff are just fantastic and really make you feel special – and not just for tips. We had flowers on our bed and palm tree birds sitting on our table – our waiter even bought us a gift from the shop with the money we gave him as a tip. (How guilty did I feel? – we gave him some more and told him off!) However reception staff aren’t that helpful to be honest. I think reception are open between 8am and five past 8am and if you miss your five minute window they tend to frown and say yes a lot but nothing gets done. But im not one for grumbling.

The dive school guys are great. Especially ‘magic’. He is such a character. The bungalows are air conditioned and clean and luxury. The Beach ones are just as nice as the water bungalows, the only difference is they are on the beach so there is no glass panel to look through.(im not going to explain why not) You can snorkel outside the water bungalows too even If you aren’t staying in one. That’s pretty amazing too for a novice.

 In short – It is what you make of it. We could have gone and moaned all week about the weather , the ketchup , the reception , the weather , the slight smell of sewage from 7am to 5 past 7am , the weather , no square crisps , the weather , the hermit crabs didn’t sing .. but we didn’t. We went, we couldn’t find a single thing to moan about – which is saying something – I mean we are british after all. 21 out of 10..without a doubt the best beach holiday I’ve had so far. (Even without a proposal!)

So here I sit back at my desk. Im looking at prices for Fiji – but I think 3 years of beans and rice is a bit much… then again Im miserable to be back and it is raining..