Come fly with me

As we strolled into Nice airport we pulled our bags after us with a great deal less enthusiasm than on the way out. We reluctantly made our way to the check in area and were met by an Air France official whose husky Gauloises drenched voice greeted us with the unlikely phrase Would you like to make some money?

Hello, good afternoon! I replied what did you just say? Visions of Air France running a corrupt web of prostitution and drug smuggling filled my head. Before my imagination had too much time to gain momentum he explained that the flight was overbooked and if we flew via London arriving in Amsterdam an hour later than planned we’d each earn €125 and the great respect of the company. My Occasionally Sleeping Friend and I looked at each other and quickly decided that the great respect of Air France was easily worth a delay of one hour.

Before we knew it we found ourselves on a plane bound for London and I glanced about myself to see more than a few passengers wearing masks in the hope of avoiding the dreaded swine flu (still known in the Netherlands as Mexican Flu incidentally). As the sunny French countryside had still not cured my dramatic consumption I decided to have a bit of fun. After a particularly impressive bout of lung evacuation I asked my OSF in an overly loud and concerned voice if he had packed the Tamiflu in the check-in bags or our hand luggage. I then sat back safe in the knowledge that I had just made the entire plane nervous and impatient for the flight to end. Ah well, at least Air France still loved me.

Because you’re gorgeous

I was getting increasingly strange looks everywhere I went – and no, not because it had been so long since I’d written in my blog that people had assumed me dead. It was because I was displaying a cough so dramatic and attention demanding that I sounded like someone in a film who was not so subtly announcing that they were scheduled to die of consumption in the next scene.

Determined to outlive my next scene I decided that my only choice was to flee to sunny, warm climes – and so I found myself in the south of France. I also found my entire family who were there to celebrate my Occasionally Glamorous Sister’s birthday. In fact, coughing aside we were all there to celebrate this significant milestone. So significant was it that nobody was allowed mention it. I found it easier to simply pretend that we all spontaneously and coincidentally showed up in this incredible, 11 bedroom villa in the middle of the countryside that my sister had rented.

We spent a week laughing in the sun, swimming in the pool, sipping Kir Royales, playing jeu-de-boules and lots more laughing and Kir Royaling! In the rare moments that we put our glasses down and controlled the giggling we even got to explore some of the countryside – passing through snoozing postcard villages and trekking through stunning gorges. It’s more than a little surprising that I survived these hikes as, thinking it ridiculously hilarious, commented every ten minutes or so just how gorgeous the scenery was.

Having survived the consumption and my life-threatening puns the final hurdle was leaving my family, the sun and the memories behind at Nice airport. Not that I really did, I’ve managed to bring each back with me, in their own little way.

I’m sick of working for a living

You okay? My Occasionally Hope-Giving Friend asked me yesterday when she caught me staring at the wall when I should have been working.  Just counting the minutes until it’s home time - I’m devising my ultimate escape plan I explained. I’ve narrowed down my options to two suitable solutions: either I win the lottery or I rob a bank.

Weighing up the choices she quickly came to the conclusion that it would have to be the lottery as I am a complete wimp when it comes to anything remotely devious. Her case in point was last week’s trip to a festival here in The Hague. The deal had been that all our friends were to smuggle in a bottle of wine each as the price of booze inside was ridiculously steep.

I spent an hour before leaving the house devising the best strategy – I agonised over which bag would be the least conspicuous, phoned friends for advice on what type of bottle would most likely make it through the security inspection, pondered which entrance would offer me the best chance, what type of facial expression to display as I made my way in…

After I had finally constructed a foolproof plan I grabbed my keys to finally leave. With the door open and one foot out sweat beads began to fall from my brow and my heart began racing. My mind flashed forward to possible scenes at the festival entrance – all scenarios ended with my utter humiliation – most featured me in handcuffs with police sirens, flashing lights and reporters everywhere.

Where’s the wine? my friends asked me when I eventually arrived Aw crap! The wine! I knew there was something I had forgotten I said with added disappointment in my voice I must have left it on the table. As I looked about at their faces it was painfully obvious that not one single person believed my story.

My only hope is that some day my annoying goody-two-clogs behaviour will somehow be rewarded in a lottery win! In the meantime I am ridiculously grateful to have such forgiving and understanding friends.

Man, I feel like a woman

Not one to wallow in happy mediums I often dabble in extremes. And I’m not talking about useful talents or gifts but more mundane things like emotions, sense of smell and nerves. The slightest unexpected noise can have me jumping half a metre off the ground and shrieking like a cat being raped. Actually, it doesn’t even necessarily need to be unexpected: toasters are a frequent source of worry as I get a horrendous shock each time the bread pops up – even if I’m waiting for it! I also have a ridiculously overdeveloped sense of smell which has me fleeing in disgust from certain restaurants and cheese shops or anywhere with a strong odour.

My Occasionally Sober Friend has never understood these issues and always accused me of overreacting – attention grabbing if you will. One nice surprise I had recently however was the news that she is pregnant! As you might gather from her name this is proving quite the challenge and so I find myself glossing over any references to alcohol in the stories I tell her. My weekend tales now involve pretend pints of Ribena for fear she’d have me describe in minute details the taste and sensation of ever sip of wine or beer I have.

More entertaining though is the multitude of changes she is going through. She can rocket from deliriously happy that the supermarket has 10 cents off her favourite bread to miserably weepy that there are three people in the queue before her. She was always quite positive about a good bargain but her reaction now involves anything from dancing, singing and jumping to slouching, crying and sighing – all reactions I empathise fully with. Her sense of smell has also sharpened to a degree that brings her in line with mine. She now spends a good 30% of the time moaning about the smells around her. Making the list even longer she seems to have developed my jumpyitis and frequently gets frightened by honking cars or loud supermarket announcements.

I love how your pregnancy has helped you understand me better I informed her (yes it is all about me). She pondered this for a few moments before adequately clarifying the situation. Basically this just means that you always act like a pregnant woman – you must be ever so proud!

Six foot four and full of muscles

Have you been working out? my Occasionally Sleeping Friend asked me recently. Of course not I replied indignantly. Gyms scare me in many, many ways, all those people jumping and flailing about on sweaty machines indoors before getting back into their cars to drive home – it’s too… weird.

It’s just that your arm muscles look really big he explained with a slight hint of awe in his voice.

Really? I shrieked in an excited pitch only audible to canines as I jumped up and raced to the mirror to check out the situation. My OSF followed me and watched in amusement as I attempted to flex my milky white chicken arms while peering with anxious concentration to see if there was any visible bump.

Hmmm he said gravely actually I think it was just the way you were lying on your arm – sorry.

When I’m sixty-four

I had an entire week of training at work recently. Usually it’s a welcome opportunity to get out of the office and do something a little different. This time however they wanted me to do work. Actual work! I mean really – haven’t they met me?

It was a programme to become a certified IT trainer (a concept I’d have been struggling not to laugh at if I wasn’t too busy struggling with learning how to use basic applications). It turned out to be a week of never ending assignments to prove my credentials. The whole thing culminated in an observed training session on an IT topic chosen by the instructor.

Now I find the whole IT world dull to say the very least so the week was hardly one peppered with laughter and amusement. I kept myself awake and alert by perfecting my doodling and sharpening my imagination until Day 3 when the instructor announced that she had chosen the topic on which I was to demonstrate my teaching abilities. She had also come up with an appropriate pretend target group of students. I sat nervously hoping it would be a remotely interest group so I could spice things up and make the whole charade more fun – perhaps a group of inmates from a high security prison? a bunch of luscious one-armed lesbians with tourette’s? – hey I could even make do with an Alcoholics Anonymous group - anything that would remotely raise a smirk would suffice thank you.

You will be teaching an old age pensioners club she dryly announced as my eager face fell with discontent. My mind drifted out the door on a wave of disappointment but was instantly snapped back when I heard the topic I would have to present- you will be teaching them how to insert objects! she explained.

Insert what now? I chirped in disbelief. Objects! she repeated, puzzled at my delighted reaction.

I’m teaching OAPs how to insert objects? I gushed with laughter How fabulous! - whoever said IT was boring?

In my imagination there is no complication

To enter the building where I work we have to go through a security check just like at the airport – but without any promise of an exotic destination. We have to pass through a metal detector which limits what type of belts we can wear and how much loose change we can smuggle inside. We also have to ensure we’re not carrying anything remotely embarrassing in our bags as they’re all sent through an x-ray machine too. When you do this day in day out, every morning and lunch it becomes so tiresome and tedious that anything to divert boredom and entertain is grasped with startling enthusiasm. This usually involves a healthy dose of imagination and whichever security officer happens to be working at that time.

Also distracting was the announcement made at work last week that ‘The Swine Flu has hit The Hague’. And I must admit they seem to know about these things – remember this from just a few days before anyone had ever even heard of the thing? Now that there are two confirmed cases in the area they’ve made their advice more specific and published a list of what to do and what to avoid, including;

- Use paper tissues when coughing or sneezing, use paper tissues once only
- Wash hands after coughing, sneezing and blowing your nose
- Clean doorknobs, kitchen appliances, keyboards and your desk frequently with antibacterial substances
- Avoid routine kissing, shaking hands and touching.
- Wash hands after every contact with a person displaying flu like symptoms
- Call your GP and stay at home if your symptoms persist or worsen

I took all this in and found my mind drifting through the x-ray machine following my bag to the other side. As I glanced at the security officer I began piecing together the defence case I’d establish. How could the officer possibly mind if I was to  grab him suddenly and bend him backwards with a flourish in order to slap an enormous kiss on his terrified face?

I’m only trying to avoid the flu! I’d plead – I’m bringing my kissing up to guideline levels and making it as un-routine as possible – I didn’t even want to kiss  you, honestly, I’m only trying to stay healthy!

You don’t have to put on the red light

My Occasionally Sleeping Friend joined me in Sarajevo after a few days which made enjoying the city even easier than before.  Making the party more fun was a friend of his who is working in Bosnia and happened to be in Sarajevo at the same time as us.

As I had to work for a few days they explored the city together during the day, taking photos in the sun and catching up on news from home. Having made her ridiculously jealous about the view we had from our hotel room we agreed one day to all meet there when I was done with work.

I was more than a little puzzled to see both of them waiting at a table in the lobby instead of sunning themselves on the balcony absorbing the spectacular scenery. As I walked towards them I noticed that they both had bright red faces and looked particularly uncomfortable as they sat in stony silence.

When questioned why they were hanging out in the dark smoky reception area my OSF replied slowly and gravely the receptionist stopped us going upstairs and informed me that I could only bring my ‘friend’ up with me if I was to pay an extra hourly rate.

It was all I could do to not erupt in laughter as I gazed on the unfortunate two who couldn’t have looked any less like a prostitute and a John if they’d tried. Stifling my laughter I approached the receptionist who after a short discussion agreed we could bring our ‘guest’ upstairs to quickly show her the view if we came right back down again – five minutes max! she sternly warned. As we quickly and nervously shuffled up the stairs I was amazed that I was able to resist the urge to turn my head back towards the lobby and whisper five minutes is all I need anyways!

Surreal in her crown

I had only just shovelled up the last batch of broken glass from the tasteless extravaganza when I had to pack my bag and head off to Sarajevo. Sarajevo is a city unusually close to my heart so it was with an extra dramatic hop I pulled my case to the airport despite my post party exhaustion.

There is just something about the spirit of that city that is impossible not to soak up. A tremendous positivity that is spiced with an exotic eastern atmosphere. The scent of Turkish coffee, baklava and shisha follow you as you wander down each narrow lane while the magnificent mosques act as your elegant orientation points.

What a shame that when people hear the name Bosnia and Sarajevo the first thing they think of is not how stunningly beautiful it is. Surely this will change with time. Personally I can’t help but feel comforted and energised as every evening the houses light up the green hills sourrounding the city acting as a twinkling background to the countless illuminated minarets.

There is a legend about a fountain in the old town that if you drink from it means you will return again one day to the city. I drank greedily until I was pushed aside by the impatient growing queue. It has worked three times before. It had better not let me down this time either.

More photos from my trip can be found here

What do you see when you turn out the light?

If the success of a party can be measured by the mess made then mine was a greedy triumph. All bottles of beer, wine, vodka, gin and lord knows what else were emptied, at least six glasses were broken throughout various locations, there was cake, garlands, candles, spilled wine, Christmas Tree needles (!) and wrapping paper strewn about the place making a fuzzy grey carpet-like sticky mess across the entire floor. It was as if 60 people had been partying instead of 30.

But as I crawled up to bed, feet sticking to the floor, gingerly avoiding shards of glass as the first light of dawn was sneaking in I looked about at the mayhem, with my Occasionally Pole-Dancing Friend and his Certain Someone asleep on the sofa-bed in the midst – I was as happy as I have ever felt before.

Time after time during the evening people had come to me to tell me how wonderful my other friends were, how great my Occasionally Glamorous Sister is and how much they liked my Occasionally Sleeping Friend.

It turns out that despite all my best efforts my bad taste party was, in the end, the very best taste possible.