Sink or Swim

Enjoyed a fantastic meal.

Drank a ridiculous amount of champagne.

Laughed at schmoozy people schmoozing. Who tried to schmooze with me. Which I can't do, because it's so false I have to laugh. And not in a subtle way. Oh dear...

Went from incredibly posh five-star poshness to incredibly non-five star bellow music out loud noisiness. Which I really enjoyed.

Bumped into a bloke who I hadn't seen in four years, who I used to really quite fancy. And discovered that I now really don't fancy him at all. And then, that he now really does quite fancy me. Which was highly entertaining.

Got eyed up by Mark Viduka.

Haha!!

Oh dear...

... working in bed.

And no, Nick, that does not mean that I have changed careers...

Go to bed and sleep like you've never slept before.

Slump in a semi-comatose state on the sofa and gaze unseeingly at the TV.

Lie on the sofa because you can't be arsed to go to bed, and snooze like you've never snoozed before, before waking up with a crick in your neck and the inevitable return of the evil cold, because you can't bring yourself to give in to winter and put the heating on yet.

All sensible and appealing options.

But, oh no, not me.

I'm about to go into town. To the pub. To meet up with three girls. One of whom has been very vocal about being on the pull tonight. And is very vocal in general. (In a good way, though )

I have the distinct feeling that this will not end well...

All over the world today, people are making important, perhaps life-changing discoveries.

A feeling of euphoric achievement engendered by surmounting the highest peak in the world.

The sweeping pride of a parent witnessing their child's first step.

That particular slow, croaking groan that heralds the realisation of an individual that he or she is awakening into a particularly gruesome hangover.

A seemingly insignificant sequence of numbers on a tiny slip of paper that will enable someone to quit their job once they've claimed their lottery prize, and possibly enable them to finally attain their wildest hopes and dreams; or else turn them into alcoholics.

A cure for cancer.

Yet, all these and more pale into insignificance alongside my personal discovery of the day.

The all-new Galaxy Roasted and Caramelised Hazelnuts bar.

Mmmmmmmm...

Ladies!

Forget strappy shoes.
Designer handbags are out.
Earrings, bracelets and necklaces, so passé.

And as for that darling little yaplapdog that you simply couldn't resist when you saw it last year in Paris Hilton's arms, toss it in the pound this instant!

Because women all over America the world are simply dying to get their hands on the latest must-have accessory for your wardrobe....

Pink guns for girls!

Firearms shops in the US are stocking pink rifles and shotguns to encourage girls to get into shooting.

A report in the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel says the Gander Mountain hunting store in Waukesha stocks several pink guns. They include a Remington 20-gauge shotgun with a pink and black stock emblazoned with the slogan: "Shoot like a girl if you can!"

Store manager Chris Hanson said the guns were aimed, so to speak, at girls and women interested in hunting.

He said the shotgun, and a Crickett rifle with a bright pink stock, were both selling well.

In Baraboo, Jim Astle, owner of Jim's Gun Supply in Baraboo, has been coating guns in pink and other colours for four years. His 12-year-old daughter owns a pink camouflage shotgun.

"Females want to shoot guns, but they want them to look pretty, too," he said. "Guys could give a rat's butt what their gun looks like."

Connie Cody, a 48-year-old administrative assistant in Kenosha, said she wishes she had seen pink guns for sale after she completed her hunter safety course 18 months ago.

Since then, she has bought a 9-millimetre pistol, a .357 revolver, a .38 Derringer and a .380 pistol, all in traditional colours.

"If they stock them," Cody vowed after learning about pink guns, "I'm going to buy one."

From Ananova

While in other completely unrelated news, Mattel has just announced that the new Barbie doll for Christmas 2007 will be sponsored by the NRA...

Okay, okay, so I know I may have been rubbing it in ever-so-slightly whilst I was living it up in sunny Croatia last week.

But does that now really warrant the following?

The return to a flat that has at some point over the past week developed a distinctly rank smell of mould. And is a complete tip. Not that the latter is exactly a change.

The almost immediate emergence of a stinking rotten cold. Actually, do colds really stink? How can you tell, if you can't actually smell anything when you have one?

The obvious onset of insanity, as revealed by the increasing randomness of crossed out remarks.

The foreboding appearance, over the past week, of no fewer than seven bills on my doormat.

The seeming disappearance off the face of the earth of a man who owes me £150. Bloody freelancing.

The additional disappearance, over the past week, of no less than the entirety of my bank balance... in fact, a good deal more than the entirety (well yes, technically speaking that could be directly linked to my holiday).

The distinct lack of any discernible room for manoeuvre, or indeed breathing, in my favourite jeans (well yes, technically speaking, that could... etc).

The constant rain. Combined, naturally, with the sudden appearance of a hole in one of my work shoes.

And, my personal unfavourite... the discovery that I've missed out on a week-long, all-expenses trip, including business class flights, to Antigua. Gah!!

Oh well, it could be worse.

At least I have that premium wine and champagne tasting evening, followed by a gourmet three-course meal of absolute decadence, set within the majestic environs of a five-star hotel, to look forward to this Friday.

Oh, I'm sorry... was I supposed to not be rubbing it in any more?

I'm not a Pro and am nearly out of media space, so these will be limited. But you get the idea...

"And it's a lovely afternoon in Manchester today," said the pilot as we prepared to land.

Sarcastic bastard.

*shivers and shakes droplets off summer dress*

Set in the little village of Pupnat, perched up in the hills. Sat outside on  a little wooden terrace, crowded around a large wooden table,  sat underneath a roof where white pieces of fabric billowed against the vines trained around the woodwork and above our heads.

An old man sat at the next table, his left hand stroking a cute little puppy, his right hand smoking cigarette after cigarette as he nodded at us and smiled fondly at our exclamations of delight.

First, a basket was brought to the table, containing a variety of grappas for us to sample.

Then we feasted upon huge platters of salty prosciutto, creamy cheeses, unusually intensely flavoured dark olives, aubergine dip, sun-blushed aubergines and soft bread delicately flavoured with fennel.

"Beautiful," we said to the smiling woman who served us. "Hvala." (Thank you).

And then we realised.

That was our starter.

Next came plates full of tiny pasta tubes cooked al dente, served with a variety of sauces: slightly spicy tomato, crisp wild fennel, incredibly tender pieces of beef lightly flavoured with fig and an almond pesto. And ravioli of fresh goat's cheese.

Then a selection of desserts: chocolate and almond cake; a creme caramel style cake; a rich lemon  flavoured chesecake with pieces of orange rind in the base. And huge purple grapes, with tight skin that burst in the mouth, releasing the sweetest of flavours.

All washed down with as much red and white wine as we could drink, which was produced by the restaurant owners.

The grappas re-appeared for our grand finale.

And we laughed, and we ate, and we drank, and we swapped stories of travelling and home and friends and family and love and humour, as the sun softly set around us, and the evening wrapped a warm cloak of conviviality and booze around our little group.

Korčula island, to be precise. Which I have just spent the morning kayaking around.

Hearing very little out on the tranquil waters, save for the soft "bloop" of red plastic paddles dropping into the water, and the chatter of my lovely kayak partner, Jo.

Enjoying the feel of cool droplets of water splashing onto my sun-warmed skin, and watching white swirls of salt encrust onto my arms as the droplets dried.

Marvelling at the clarity of the vibrant blue waters and tasting the sharpness of salt on my hot lips.

Wondering how the hell I'm going to manage lifting my rucksack onto my sore shoulders tomorrow.

And tonight we have a three-course meal with the locals, washed down with plenty of wine and the local "fire-water", to look forward to.

Laters...

x

I hope you all enjoyed the lucidity of my previous post. Because you're not getting it again...

Because my wine followed by beer has, as the saying goes, most definitely been followed by queer today, thanks to a 4am finish last night-this morning and an unexpected awakening at 9am, which was when I was told that I had to check out early. Ouch.

I've turned out to be the only English girl in my party of eleven. In fact, I've turned out to be the only non-Aussie in my party of eleven. Which is definitely proving entertaining. Mostly twenty and thirty-somethings, with a few fifty and sixty-somethings thrown in for good measure.

Yesterday involved an early morning trip around the city walls of the Old Town - early to beat the cruise ships queues - followed by a "Dubrovnik-style" pizza for lunch, which basically consisted of a very cheesy pizza topped with a fried egg. A heart attack on a plate. Perhaps that's what the Croatians are hoping for when it comes to entertaining the ubiquitous fat Americans.

A photo exhibition was the next port of call, including a video that recorded the shelling of this stunning beautiful city. None of your Hollywood hysteria here, no blood, no shrieks, no lost children crying, no panic.

Just a chilling playback of the dull thuds of not-so-distant explosions, as clouds of black smoke billow from the red roofs, boats in the harbour burst into flame and shells rain into the sea. Residents are all in hiding outside the city, or within the walls, praying that they and their loved ones are spared.

And then the aftermath. Collapsed hotels, smashed cars, massive chunks of concrete hewed out of walls, shell holes in windows and walls.  People wandering around, some picking up belongings, some taking photographs, some standing still, smoking cigarettes and staring in bewilderment at what was once theirs and whole.

A fascinating portrayal of a shell-shocked city, in the most literal sense of the word.

From there it was a wander around the narrow streets, and then to the harbour for the inevitable dip into the gorgeously clear, massively salty waters. Bliss.

At 4pm, those who dared met up to tackle the great hill that looms behind the city. A simple white cross marked our finishing point at the top, which took us just an hour to reach. The hot sun made it more of a trek, but it was relatively easy going, and well worth the effort for the view over the city and out across the huge ocean-filled horizon which stetched into eternity.

And...ah...I have to leave it there I'm afraid. Which is probably just as well, since the rest of the yesterday sinks into drunken debauchery, preceded by the biggest bowl of mussels I've ever seen. Divine.

And now I'm off to nurse my headache, browse the shops, go for a paddle and then catch the bus to the island of Korcula, which will be my temporary home for the next couple of nights. Look it up on t'internet, if you like. Or, more accurately, if you like feeling sick to your stomach, whilst sat in a boring office, at boring work, in a boring country, where it's not currently 27 degrees centigrade, and you're not about to have a generous scoop of divine chocolate ice-cream, for no other reason than because. You. Can.

Catch ys later...

"I like to chat with my friends in the morning... spend the day on the beach... then in the evening, go to a restaurant by the sea with a beautiful woman... talk some, laugh some, drink wine... and then have fantastic sex. You like that?"

Well, yes, Duško, that sounds great.

But it is only three minutes since we first met.

And, as my taxi driver,  I was kind of thinking of you more as the man who is going to take me to my accommodation, rather than the man who is going to take me in my accommodation.

"Here is my card," he says, reaching into what is doubtless a bottomless pit of business cards at the right of his steering wheel. "I could take you to a small seafood restaurant I know tonight. Beautiful food, beautiful company. It's up to you. Or... perhaps I could take your number?"

That's okay, Duško. I've got your number.

But thanks for the welcome.

...

I'm unpacking a few things in my room. An incredibly clean room, panelled walls painted a crisp white, with a low ceiling, small window at hip height, and tiny skylight. I'll be sharing with another girl, who has yet to arrive.

A cruise ship honks loudly nearby. Paulina, the live-in owner of our apartments, rushes in and inexplicably attempts to viciously propel me through the hip-height window. And I'd thought we were getting on well.

Thankfully, I catch the frame rather painfully at crotch-level and am left with my head and neck stretching forward through the windowframe, with Paulina leaning on top of me in a mightily familiar manner. Still, after my episode with Duško, I should be used to mighty familiarity in a short space of time by now.

"Quick, quick, look!" she gasps eagerly and points to the right. The window, which at first glance I believed simply overlooked the narrow street and cream-coloured house opposite, reveals to the right a fabulous view of a small harbour, where one of the vast cruise liners is currently dominating the scene as it pulls majestically out to sea.

Paulina beams at me, and I can't help but beam back. It seems rude not to, we are nearly touching noses, after all. Besides, her enthusiasm is infectious. "Beautiful, yes?"

Yes.

...

The streets in the Old Town are paved with smooth, slightly uneven slabs of pale marbles. In the sun they are tinged a beautiful pale pink, in the shade, they become more translucent and slightly reflective, turning the street into a shimmering river.

I sit outside a caffe-bar next to the cathedral, facing the street, and watch the tourists throng past, snapping away, or licking huge, multicoloured scoops of ice-cream piled precariously on top of crunchy cones.

A young German couple sit down next to me. They start snogging, loudly. Then she stops to order a cappucino and he immediately lights up a Gitane, perhaps already spent.

I feel a distinct pang for a cigarette.

...

The beach is covered in smooth, white pebbles and sizzling, brown bodies. The water is stunning clear by the sea's edge, where tourists paddle and babble. I snuggle my bare feet in amongst the smallest of the warm pebbles, and watch them slowly darken.

A pretty young girl snorkels, her lightly toasted body and bright pink bikini contrasting sharply against the azure water. I wade in and join her, feeling the cool water bite against my hot body before it eases to cool refreshment.

Bliss.

...

Which brings me largely up-to-date. In 15 minutes' time I am scheduled to meet the rest of the group that I'll be travelling with for the next six days. I've already briefly met our guide, a twenty-something Aussie girl called Lauren.

I'm going to be travelling with Lauren and ten other people. Ten other females, in fact.

I don't know if I've actually been in the company of eleven girls since I left school a good few *ahem* years ago. Unless you count hen parties. And, even then, I've only actually ever been to one hen party. So this could be interesting.

Thinking of my recent taxi journey, I said to Lauren, "Eleven girls? They're gonna lurrrve us."

She opened her eyes wide, and grinned even wider. "Oh yes," she said.

Yes. This could be interesting...

I'm off on holiday tomorrow morning at 5.45am. And...

I'm not out in the pub, accidently *ahem* staying out until 3am and guaranteeing myself a knackered and hungover start to the trip.

I've got some local currency, so won't have to pay over the odds at an airport exchange service, or dash around frantically trying to find an elusive ATM at a foreign airport to try and get some cash for a taxi to my accommodation.

I've found my missing bikini.

I've got a guide book, plus a load of information about the country that I've printed off t'internet, to read on the plane.

I've packed.

Let me just repeat that. I've packed.

I've booked my taxi for the morning.

I've set my alarm.

Bloody hell. Anyone would think I was organised.

Of course, I have yet to tear myself away from the re-runs of Heroes currently playing on BBC2, which are scheduled to run until 1.30am. So I'm not out of the woods just yet.

Oh, and one more thing...

See y'all soon!

x

grumble... bloody online ordering... mumble... try to give someone a surprise... grumble... fecking error emails that disappear into junk mail folders... mumble... what's the point of giving them a contact phone number if they don't bloody use it... grumble... why didn't you say on the form you needed a surname for delivery... mumble... they're there now so it's not a nice surprise any more... grumble... where's my you-fucked-up discount... mumble... bastards.

Oh, and the five-day forecast for Dubrovnik? Around 26 degrees centigrade, and nothing but sun...

To share my recent comment - this is how I would like to depart this life:

Sat outside in the garden of my luxurious retirement pad, sipping a glass of red wine whilst also drinking in the beautiful vista that soothes my tired eyes: of lush vineyards and olive groves in Italy, or limestone outcrops and the glorious blue ocean in Thailand, or spectacular snow-capped mountains and shimmering lakes in, well, anywhere really.

Beats Elvis, anyway.

Yes, you heard me right.

Or Elvis to turn up, alive and well and with a brand new set of songs, on my doorstep.

Or Bristol Rovers to win the FA Cup.

Or Jesus to appear, softly etched in charcoal, on my morning slice of toast.

Or Juzzzy to become teetotal.

Because, right now, I need to believe that miracles can happen.

Because then, and only then, do I stand the slightest chance in hell of getting this ludicrous mountain of work done before I go on holiday on Sunday morning.

Gah!

Two days.

So, last night's dinner.

The French onion soup starter seemed more like a stew. A stew that was jam-packed with juicy, slippery slivers of tangy, caramelised onion and topped with a perfect round of crusty bread, covered in richly heavy, melted Lancashire cheese. Mmmm. I certainly hope that this particular 100-year-old recipe sticks around for a few more centuries.

Mains, and I was pretty curious to know what veggie pie with chips and gravy on God's earth could justify a £10.50 price tag. My expectations of a vegetable version of a gargantuan Desperate Dan cow pie were sadly let down by the small round filo pastry tart that appeared.

Appearances can be deceptive, however, and the amount of cheese found in the sauce and topping of this crispy leek and onion concoction (I still can't quite call it a pie) made me wonder if the button on my jeans would last the night.

Oh, and I think I can say with a relative degree of safety that I have now tasted the most diviiiiine chips in the world. Swoon! Although I still think that traditional gravy beats hands-down a creamy wild mushroom sauce as an accompaniment to chips, no matter how "hand-cut" said chips are.

You can imagine my look of utmost horror and despair as I was told that they'd sold out of chocolate mousse.

Still, a platter of apple and summer fruit crumble, with fresh redcurrants and blackberries, was suitably squidgy and crunchy in equal measures. And, although Birds will doubtless always remain my gorgeously gloopy custard of choice, the jug of light, single cream-eque custard that accompanied the crumble was undeniably tasty, with little specks of vanilla seeds smugly announcing its posh credentials.

I can safely say that a menu of what is, essentially, pub grub, has never looked or tasted better. However, it did feel a little strange filling myself up with stodgy Sunday lunch or hangover cure food - no matter how excellently executed - as an evening meal dining out in wine bar surroundings.

Still. It was free. It was fun. And I'm still feeling full.

But... oh, look, it's lunchtime. What shall I eat?

...more full than the fullness of time...

It is also my lovely little sister's birthday today.

xx

I have free food tonight. A restaurant review. And the menu looks bloody great.

So that's good.

Happy Birthday!!

...relationships.

Apparently.

According to a press release that I have to write, anyway. So, let's think about the angle.

A case study, perhaps, of a couple who were floating along happily on a little fluffy cloud of marital bliss (perhaps even with The Orb playing the appropriate tranquil track in the background)...

...until one day the pile of junk mail and receipts in the corner was miraculously granted the power of speech; a gift which it unfortunately decided to devote to maliciously impersonating the voices of said couple in order to provoke arguments between them, as they believed it was their loved one and not the seemingly innocent pile of paper hurling such terrible personal abuse...

...until they eventually cracked and murdered each other by surreptitiously adding poison to the other's cup at exactly the same moment, such was the degree to which their perfectly suited minds were in tune; thus providing the inevitable note of cruel - yet, somehow beautiful in its symmetry - irony that is essential to true tragedy.

Or perhaps we could talk about the other case of the couple whose lives were, quite literally, blown apart when the man (had to be the man, we all know what clumsy oafs they can be) tripped over a pile of empty pizza boxes (had to be pizza boxes, we all know that they never throw the bloody things away)...

...and fell accidently upon the bomb that his wife - who, somewhat unusally it must be confessed, but not entirely inconceivably, practised both knitting and nuclear physics in her spare time - had left in the cat litter tray for safekeeping.

So many possibilities. From which only one certainty can be drawn.

I'm losing it...

...I think the one I actually did read, which advertised "vaginal tightening surgery", would possibly have come at the bottom of the pile...

I once met a boy called Dwayne Pipe.

This is no word of a lie.

The poor mite cowered and did his best to shrink into the corner of an armchair as his friend introduced us with the malicious glee and unforgiving cackling laughter of the just-turned-teenager. Doubtless DP was doing what he'd been doing ever since he grew old enough to understand the meaning of laughter; wishing away the hateful years until he was old enough to change his name by deed poll.

I always thought that name couldn't be beaten in the child cruelty stakes (although Peter Andre and Katie's Price's spawn came very close).

But this...

Well, it's been a pretty healthy week except for the enduring crappy eating habits.

I haven't been smoking. In fact, I haven't puffed on a cigarette since I announced my intention to quit one month ago today. Which, I have to say I am rather amazed at proud of.

And I haven't consumed a