Sink or Swim

Uurgh.
Uck.
Ow.
Owwwwwwww.
Grruuurrrgggghhhh.
Bleurgh.
Ick.
Yeeeeeeooouuuuuuuccchhhh.
Unnggggg.
Mep.

Ugh.

Yes. The entirety of this day really is going to feel as though I have only just woken up to be greeted with this hideous, almighty, monstrous, gargantuan Hangover of Doom.

It's been a tiring day. My Herculean attempts at various forms of exercise have been, I believe, truly commendable. So I thought I would share my top tips for health, fitness and wellbeing with you all.

Today's exercises have concentrated on the following areas:

The legs.
A three-hour drive must really be tough going on the leg muscles. All that changing gear, pressing on the accelerator and...er...slight shifting around of the arse. Phew!

The stomach.
Highly strenuous curry-eating activities have left the belly rounded and swollen. Obviously a sign of strong, bulky muscles. Excellent.

The brain.
Left spinning in confusion after a two-hour session with a business advisor earlier today. Spinning is one of the toughest gym routines in existence. That must be a good thing, right?

The wallet.
Getting thinner by the day. Who needs Weight Watchers?

The liver.
We all know that exercise is the key to fitness - so a healthy dose of wine is definitely in order tonight. Whipcrack, whipcrack, no slacking girl!

God, I'm good. Perhaps I'll start training in earnest for the 2012 Olympics.

So last year I went to an introductory level wine course in an area of Mancsville best known for its association with footballers.

And this week I went to an intermediate level wine course in an area of Mancsville better known for its association with footballers' wives.

I think the difference between the two experiences can be best summed up in the following two extracts of conversation.

1. "So... you don't actually pronounce the 't' in Cabernet?"

2. "So... this wine shop sells Penfold Grange from £100 a bottle? That's not bad, not bad at all."

I shall leave you to figure out which comment belonged to which wine course.

And no, I'm not having one...

*sigh*

From here.

1. Where was your last holiday?

Canada. For details, go here.

2: Where will your next holiday be?

Not sure. It might be St Louis, for a wedding in summer.

Or it might be Berlin, if I can find a convenient time and a cheap flight.

Or I might go bonkers and book a last-minute flight somewhere to get away from it all for a few days. It has happened before...

3. What was your best break and why?

I had a year spent travelling to various places around the world, seven years ago. It was a fabulous experience and without a doubt the best year of my life so far. No regrets whatsoever, despite some of the down times.

4. And the worst and why?

Tricky one. Possibly Tenerife, thanks to our cockroach-infested apartment, drunken twats in the apartment above us and getting food poisoning at the same time as I came down with double bronchitis, and being unable to eat, drink or move for three days.

Put that way, you might wonder why I hesitated from naming this trip in the first place. But I also had fun with my mates and have some good memories, despite all the shite. Swimming with dolphins in amazingly warm, cerulean waters was a particular highlight.

5. If money were no object, where would you go?

South America. For at least a year. There's so much there that I want to see and do and I'd love to have the time and freedom to explore it all at my leisure.

I'd also buy holiday homes in each of my favourite countries and spend the rest of my days typing away on my laptop, following summer around the globe

*nods sagely*

EDIT: It's here!

I have no idea why, either.

Thursday is the new Friday.

I have my first Easter egg sat in front of me.

Said Easter egg is blatantly not going to see out the day. *evil cackle*

I have Goldfrapp and Jacques Lu Cont available for my listening pleasure today.

I talked my way into some new business last night with a hot young gay *sigh* man.

I have a new friendship with a hot young gay *sigh* man.

I arrived home last night to find two bottles of free wine sat on my doorstep. Just in time for the weekend.

I have pub plans for this evening. Quel surprise.

I am going to meet my new adopted nephew this weekend, which I am quite ridiculously excited about. Although I have been warned to pack the ear plugs. I shall put them right next to the wine.

I have opened said Easter egg....

Sustainable fashion. It's just soooo in.

Shirts made from Fairtrade-certified cotton; handbags made from second-hand jeans and car seat belts; trousers made from organic fibres; vegan-friendly faux-leather coats; re-purposed rubber trainers; recycled newspaper dresses....

Everyone's at it, from the eco-stalwarts, such as TRAID Remade, to the bandwagon-stowaways, like Nike. It may not be a new phenomenon, but it's certainly a blossoming one, thanks to the current consumer love of the Big G. Reen.

(Perhaps Oxfam was really just a cynical marketing ploy that happened to be years ahead of its time, so turned to charitable causes as a last resort? Marty McFly was probably involved there at some stage.)

However.

I do wonder whether this will really catch on...

For you. And for your wonderful boy.

So sorry my dear. This feels so ineffectual, but I simply want to emphasise, as we all do, that all our thoughts are with you and we're here to provide whatever support we can.

My friend.

£39,000 a year on wine??

I am clearly not drinking enough.

There are certain days in your life when you realise that you’re finally growing up.

The day when your persistent ‘wobbling’ yields up your first milk tooth into your hand.
The day you receive the keys to your own home.
The day you enter a pub and realise that you wish someone would ask you for ID.

And the day you become the Managing Director of your own company.

I’m incredibly lucky. My business partner is fantastic at what she does; is warm and friendly; has a unique approach to creativity that matches my own *ahem*, and actually enjoys handling invoices. She must be mad. Well, obviously: she’s gone into business with me.

But as we entered our accountant’s office, ready to sign all the paperwork that would join us together in a legally-binding partnership (and she hasn’t even met the in-laws yet [good God, what if she's Heather Mills-McCartney in disguise?]), I wondered how this day might impact on me in the future.

After all, I was about to become a Managing Director. Should I therefore start acting like one? By which I don’t mean taking up golf and having an affair with my secretary... I mean actually, properly, finally behaving as though I’m grown up.

Should I adopt a professional image? Wear make-up at all times? Which might actually mean learning how to apply it properly...

When working from home and have no meetings scheduled, should I actually get out of bed dressed before midday?

Would it - horror of horrors - no longer be deemed acceptable for me to wear a badge to the pub on my birthday which reads: “If you fancy me, say so immediately and buy me a pint of Guinness”?

And, just in case a client might indeed one day happen across my inane ramblings on t'internet.... should I stop blogging?

Such thoughts did cross my mind - but I wasn't about to stop the meeting now.

Paperwork duly signed, my official business partner and I left the accountants. We looked at each other. We laughed. And we made our first two decisions as Managing Directors.

One: We didn’t like the title Managing Director. Too stuffy and dull. Nor did we want some bullshit title that doesn’t actually mean anything - like Creative Director.

We were going to be Boss Ladies.

Two: The Boss Ladies were going for a pint to celebrate.

Maturity. Overrated.

Sick of where you live? What you do? Who you know?

Wish you could be someone else? Want a different kind of life?

Why not be this guy....

And now she'as gone. Boo hoo!

Still, it was a great w/e. Curry, booze, lazing, laughing, chicken rotisserie hysterics, hot men lusting, bacon wine, bacon sarnies, lovely lakes, French philosophy, happy feet, booze, plinky plonky piano, frozen pea horror, swanky three course yumminess, giggling, booze, biscuit-thieving, viking shipping, gravy goodness, Guinness gooderness, fond farewells and future plans.

She's a good un, that Soy. And far more lovely than she knows.

In other news, on Friday afternoon I a) got the position that I applied for in the morning - which is temporary, but hopefully interesting - and b) officially became a company director.

All in all, not a bad few days.

x

Ladies and gentlemen, I have found my life's calling.

Let me introduce you to my church, the Temple of Sumptuous Lip-Smacking Nomminess in central Mancsville.

I have worshipped there before. But today, as I lifted the Mahoosive Burrito of Tender Slow-Cooked Pork with Juicy Orange and Thyme, Wild Rice, Spicy Beans, Crunchy Peppers, Crispy Lettuce, Richly Mature Cheddar Shavings, Cream of Heavenly Sourness and Zing-A-Zing-Ahhhhhh Spicy Salsa of Glee to my mouth, and felt it explode in a fountain of saliva, tingling my tongue with lust so outrageous as would make the most hardened madam of a Thai brothel blush, and flooding my cheeks with grateful tears... I experienced an epiphany.

So I shall now be known henceforth no longer as RowtheBoat, but as RowtheBarburritoDisciple, a fitting title for someone who has decided to devote the Rest of their Days spreading the Good Word and the Spicy Salsa Sauce Fumes wherever they go.

This has, of course, absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I might have been mildly hungover this morning, and thus ravenous for any form of sustenance that would prove more satisfying than my only apparent option of a used teabag, so a slice of mealy bread just five seconds shy of turning mouldy would doubtless also have seemed like paradise in my mouth.

No. Nothing at all.

So go, my children. Go forth and multiply in Burrito Peace.

Life's been up and down a bit of late. I've been switching from feeling enthusiastic, motivated and proactive, to lying prone on my bed, not wanting to move or speak to anyone - and then back again, in a short space of time.

There have been various problems, which go some way towards explaining why I've been propelled from mood to mood like this. But I think they haven't been helped by the fact that I have a distinct proclivity to procrastination. Which, when you're trying to start up a business and get into good working habits, isn't exactly appropriate and produces little more than feelings of guilt.

So I really need to sort myself out properly and be more productive.

But then, apropos of nothing (or so it seems to me, who has still no idea how I proceeded to win a Bloscar), I have been awarded this lovely Pro account. Which is just begging to be poked and prodded and played with.

Bol*insert profanity*ks.

Incidently, does anyone else hate that '500 miles' song by The Proclaimers? And what are your thoughts on the life and teachings of that great ancient Greek philosopher, Proclus?

Not quite hitting it right at the moment.

Up and down, in and out, not really swings and roundabouts, more like a badly balanced see-saw.

Time for one of these, perhaps...?

Just a little one.

x

Not for Nick, though.

The Mighty Rovers!

Balls to the Baggies.

*bounces*

Happy Birthday Tooooo Yoooooooouuuuuuuu!

Looks like I'm going to V festival, then. Ah, sweet sweet Muse.

Shit. Does this mean I have to camp?

I may be feeling ever so slightly under the weather this morning.

But at least I don't feel as bad as this guy...

Someone beat me to it...

Just for you, Ms Lolcat Supreme...

Have a good un, chicka xx

I have just booked my (ridiculously overpriced) rail ticket to go down to Laaanden Taaaaahn in April for a hen party. Hurrah! Fabulous stuff! Can't wait!

Oh, except for one tiny detail.

Hen parties scare me.

I'm not great in a group of girls at the best of times. Let alone when it's apparently compulsory to be raucous and ridiculous and generally draw as much unwanted attention to yourself as possible.

Still, at least I'm not the hen. More like the chicken.

So if anyone notices a gaggle of girls gossiping and giggling their way around the city in a month's time, I'll be the one grimacing in a corner, glaring at the ridiculous devil's horns we'll no doubt have to wear and glugging away at the Guinness and gin.

Gah!

When I was 15 years old and preparing for a trip to Malaysia with my family, I remember my mum coming into my bedroom as I was packing a load of cropped tops and short shorts and giving me some advice.

"Take some long-sleeved cotton tops instead and some longer shorts and skirts. It's not just about sun protection - it's a different culture there."

As a teenager used to wearing pretty much whatever I wanted, no matter how disasterous the result (on one memorable night out I wore tiny denim shorts with black tights that had purple and yellow dancing ladies running from my then-skinny thighs to toes, topped with a black crop-top and a see-through black viscose shirt - plus long hair, skull ring, fishbone earrings, yes, yes, all right...), this irritated me no end. Especially because I had been to Malaysia before and thought of it as a very laid back and westernised country.

And when I got to Malaysia and noticed that all the other tourists were wearing identical clothes to the ones I'd removed from my bag, and that even some of the locals were too, I was even more pissed off.

Still, I coped. I wore big floaty white t-shirts and shirts. And I had a great holiday.

Many years later I was sat on the edge of a beach in Krabi, chatting to the Thai woman who ran the guesthouse I was staying in and a couple of her male friends. As we sat and talked, two British girls in bikinis walked past, clambered up the side of the beach and walked down the road back towards the town area. The men's eyes followed them - as men's eyes the world over would do.

"Engleesh slapp-haaaas," one of them said, and they laughed.

I raised my eyebrows at them half-jokingly - they knew I was English. One of them caught my eye.

"No, no, you diffren," he said, waving his arm, gesturing from my head to my feet. "You good girl, dress nice. So many Engleesh girls, they dress like that all the time, everywhere they go they show it off. You good girl, you safe with us."

And they laughed again.

Although I'd known before travelling around South East Asia that most western tourists dressed pretty much as they would back home (albeit 'back home during a massive heatwave'), and that the locals in the tourist areas were well used to it, I'd decided to adopt the same baggy shirts and long shorts routine that I'd followed in Malaysia when I was 15. This was purely because I was travelling alone and I figured that there was no point running even the slightest risk of attracting any unwanted attention. Although I did wear a bikini on the beach - sod it, a girl's got to get a tan, after all.

To be honest, I hadn't really thought it made much difference until that point. But it did.

They weren't the last people I met on that trip who made such comments on what I wore, and they definitely weren't the crudest when it came to making comments about what the "other" tourists looked like and acted like, men as well as women.

And yes, skimpy clothes and crude comments go together the world over.

But I reckon my mum had been right to advise me as she did. Because it was a different culture. And I wasn't mature enough to appreciate the subtleties of this at the time.

Sure, they were used to westerners dressing and acting a certain way. But they also placed certain interpretations on these outward signs that were present in their heads, regardless of how they treated you. Because that wasn't how people in their culture tended to dress and act, unless they too were "party people", with all the connotations that went along with that seemingly innocent description.

And whether the actions of some local men were based on what they thought these "party people" were really like, or what opportunities they spied to take advantage of the vulnerable, the fact was that you couldn't afford to put yourself at risk through careless naivety.

Being alone and drunk in a strange place in the middle of the night is never safe. Let alone when you're a 15-year-old girl in a partytime holiday resort in a country where the local girls simply don't act like that.

Yes the men responsible are malicious, predatory and sick and should be punished. And yes, we should live in a world where you can go where you want and act how you want without fear of anyone taking advantage of you.

But we don't.

No, I don't think Scarlett Keeling was to "blame". Nor was her mother, despite all the "oh, she shouldn't have left her alone" accusations. After all, at the age of 15 there were many occasions when I went out at night and came back in a less than sober state ever so slightly after midnight. Ahem.

But to assume that you can act abroad in exactly the same way as you would do in your own culture - or even in a way that you wouldn't act in your own culture because it's simply not safe (imagine if the girl had been in a similar state at a similar hour with complete strangers on Blackpool beach) - is horribly naive.

And yet so many people do this in resorts all over the world, because "everyone else is doing it" and "no-one told us it might be risky".

Apologies if this offends anyone. I just think that when it comes to your kids, you can't expect them not to be naive - so if it means being a boring killjoy to keep them safe when you're on holiday in another country, so be it.

Like I would ever do anything but eat these...

When the best thing anyone has to say about a guest house is that it's "pretty bad, but not the worst place on earth", it's probably best to steer clear...