Yeah, you read that right. My last entry was on the 20th of November. I had fully intended to write a “Christmas Card Apology” post at some point, but this was just the kind of Christmas that didn’t allow for little indulgences like, oh, sitting on my ass for longer than 15 minutes, so I must apologize for the delay.

Things started to go slightly pear shaped in Potamus land round about Thanksgiving when my father had what he likes to call “the first of my ischaemic episodes”. (Translated into English, this is a small stroke.) Of course, my immediate reaction was to book the first flight out,  but was told in no uncertain terms by both parental units that this was vastly unnecessary and that they would prefer that I and my burgeoning bump remained just where we were, thank you very much. However, two weeks later, when  he had what he likes to call “the second of my ischaemic episodes” (which was expected, but nonetheless, traumatic) there was little hesitation on my part to book a flight for the earliest possible opportunity that would not cost a small fortune. Of course, I didn’t inform my parents of this decision, deciding that the old addage, “It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission” would have to do in this case.

Christmas itself was enlivened by a visit from my childhood friend Virginia, who spent Christmas week with us, having a gander around London and amusing the Prawn to no end. It was lovely having her here and even lovelier to have an extra pair of hands for large Christmas related tasks like the inevitable day-before-Christmas shopping trip which is ALWAYS nightmarish, but this year was made worse by pre-Christmas snowfall which trapped people in their homes for some time leading up to the holidays. The crowd in the local Waitrose, which is usually characterized by their relative civility in contrast to the average crowd at Tesco, was VAST and manners pretty much were NOT the motto of the day. One would think that being hugely pregnant would keep people from deliberate ramming you with shopping trollies, but one would be very much mistaken.

Christmas, although somewhat stressful for the rest of us, was utterly joyful for the Prawn, who spent the day being showered by wave after wave of presents. Since we didn’t want to add a whole lot to our “Stuff Footprint” due to the impending move Westward over the ocean, her gifts were numerous, but small and easily transportable. Remember the time in your life when you’d open a pack of SOCKS on Christmas morning and still be excited about it? (Me neither. But my point is, little kids don’t need big, expensive stuff to get excited about.) We managed to stretch out the gift giving until well after Christmas dinner was finished, which, for us, was a serious parent-forethought coup. (This from people who have, on occasion, gone out for a whole day, not realizing that we’ve forgotten diapers. Or juice. Or Mr. Moo.) The biggest Christmas hits were probably her stuffed Tigger (a fabulous sale find at the Disney Store who has now joined the ranked of anointed “friends” who take up 80% of her bed) and her new Brio trainset from PPD, Uncle Duff and Auntie Trumpet. (which she would probably also take to bed if we let her.)

I was lucky enough to have booked a flight to the US on New Year’s Eve that left Heathrow and arrived at Dulles within half an hour of Virginia’s, so after saying goodbye to her in the morning, we met up again 8 hours later on the other end of the planet in order for me to bum a ride back to the homestead. Air travel is weird, weird, weird.

Also, due to the douchecanoe in Detroit with exploding underwear, I was subjected to probably the most stringent security measures I have encountered in my years of flying so far, even post 9/11. Not only was the normal security line fairly painful, but once at the gate, every passenger was patted down and all carry-ons were completely unpacked and searched as well. (did I mention that I only traveled with one rather full carry on? And that while TSA agents are happy to unpack your luggage for you, packing it again is TOTALLY up to you?) Not only this, but once inside the gate area, we were unable to leave to use the toilet without having to go through the whole process all over again. (Imagine the joy of being 6.5 months pregnant and being told that you may not pee for 2 whole hours after having had a large, decaf skinny latte for breakfast.) The flight itself was entirely uneventful; a fact that made it EXTREMELY eventful as I’ve not experienced an uneventful flight for the last 2 and a half  years. There was no one to worry over for kicking the seat in front of her, getting crumbs everywhere and repeatedly asking for juice, so I cherished what is certainly to be the last flight before traveling becomes even MORE complicated with the arrival of someone who might scream for the entire 8 hours for no good reason.

I was, as you might imagine, reluctant to leave The Rock Star and the Prawn for a whole week but knew that I’d certainly be happier to see my Dad for myself and reassure myself that everything was indeed okay. My arrival was unexpected, which was slightly unnerving. Not because I thought my parents were going to be out carousing to ring in the New Year, but simply knowing that THEY didn’t know I was coming made me slightly nervous. I chose to withhold this information until I was about a quarter of a mile from the house when I phoned and asked my mother to put the kettle on. This of course made no sense to her at all, but she heard Virginia laughing in the background and immediately assumed that we were BOTH still in England and HOW IN GOD’S NAME DID SHE MANAGE TO MISS HER FLIGHT? I then had to gently explain that Virginia was NOT in England and that /I/ was in fact in America and basically at the front door, so how about a cup of tea?
So, it turned out the only thing I needed to ask forgiveness for was making my mother cry.

I had a tremendously relaxed week with my parents. I was indeed glad for the opportunity to see my father for myself. He’s doing well, all things considering. The most hated of all of his post “ischaemic episode” symptoms; a hideous case of the hiccups, had just abated when I arrived, (Yes, brain swelling can cause hiccups. A new one on me too.) so he was happily enjoying life post persistent diaphragmic spasms. Even his word recovery was much, much better than I would have expected  and will continue to improve, no doubt. In the meantime, he can competently talk “around” words that escape him until those new little connections start forming again.

As for myself, I rather enjoyed the novelty of sitting on my rapidly expanding posterior on a new and tremendously comfy couch IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY reading books and covered in cats. I also got to indulge in some shopping at Target, lunch with Virginia at the orgasmically nom-tacular California Tortilla Kitchen (words cannot describe how happy a giant burrito and yummy chips and salsa made me) and spending time in my parent’s lovely home. The weather during my visit couldn’t have been a whole lot colder, so remaining indoors at all times was high on the list of all of our priorities. I managed to speak twice a day with The Rock Star and the Prawn, who, of course put on her best puppy eyes and pleaded with me to come home and reiterated many times over that she’d “lost” me. Parental guilt overload.

All too soon, it was time for me to get BACK on a plane for the return journey. Strangely enough, during the week of my absence, I discovered that I had become slightly more uncomfortably pregnant, so dragging two suitcases around Dulles at 6.30am became  more of a chore than it was when I came over only 6 days earlier. (Well, the second suitcase was my own fault. The siren song of Target overcame me.) My only moment of levity during the morning was noticing that the TSA rep who gave me a pat-down in security was called “Agent Wang” and trying not to let him know that I was sophomoric enough to find his name patently hilarious. The actual flight was not quite as restful as the one before it; an hour of prolonged turbulence, worry over whether or not the plane would have a place to LAND due to snow in the UK and a mentally ill seatmate put paid to any restfulness that was to be had.

So I am once again home and have realized that now that the holidays and my traveling are past me, the next big thing on my personal schedule  is having a baby, which is harshing my calm a bit. The baby was always that thing that I’d deal with after the holidays; that thing I didn’t really need to think about just yet. However, it is now starting to dawn on me that there might be some things I need to take care of between now and mid to late March. Like finding that elusive black sack full of 0-3 month old clothes and washing them. And buying a new Moses basket. And PBA Free bottles. And trying to get the Prawn used to the idea of someone else coming to live with us forever and ever who might be kind of disruptive for a while before she gets cute and play-with-able.  I hope that she will accept the arrival with good grace, although, at the moment, virtually NOTHING she does, (being a two and a half years old) is with good grace, so I’m not holding my breath. Perhaps more calm will descend the closer to 3 she gets. Or perhaps not. At any rate, I’ll keep reading “Big Sister Dora” to her and see if it does any good.

This little missive has now rambled on sufficiently to classify as self-indulgent so I will simply end by saying that I hope I can get a few more entries in before the world as I know it goes completely haywire.

Pig Flu didn’t get me. But I have tumbled headlong into the disorienting embrace of jetlag.

It’s been a while since I’ve been able to experience my homeland in the summer time. Over the last few years, our American sojourns have occurred during the festive period (either Thanksgiving or Christmas) and while I love the woods where I grew up, there is something tremendously melancholy about loads of bare trees waving their naked braches in the cold. In addition, if I want to freeze my ass off, I’ll just go outside in the UK around mid June.

I had completely forgotten how summer utterly transforms the area. My parent’s yard looked more akin to Eden than Frederick County when we pulled in the driveway on the way home from the airport. It was a veritable wonderland of big, blowsy blooms and green as far as the eye could see. The Prawn has eyes only for Grams and Pop Pop in the moments after we arrived, but I could hardly stop gaping at the yard and drinking in the summer smell that we are so sadly lacking where we reside.

I should reverse gear and mention that our trip over was once again very smooth, despite the presence of a toddler. We are fortunate in that we have a rabid Sesame Street addict on our hands and with this currency, we can buy any amount of good behaviour. Even nearly 8 hours worth. Yes. I know. Very bad parents, but very happy ones. However, this experiment led us to discover that an iPhone has a pretty astonishing battery capacity if you don’t mind watching videos in 4’ x 2’. To make extra sure of no gaps in our Sesame Street delivery system, we had videos on BOTH of our iPhones AND both of our laptops. With the Prawn safely anesthetised, I was free to watch the goggle box as well in the form of “Benjamin Button”, (note to self: DO NOT WATCH OVERLY EMOTIONAL MOVIES IN PUBLIC PLACES. The stewardess that came around with orange juice midway through the flight asked me if there was anything she could do for me. Doofus.) “Anchorman” and an episode of “Flight of the Concords” (which, by the way, is simultaneously funny and deeply unfunny at the same time.).

We were lucky to get mostly fabulous weather for our visit. Of course, the time change wrecked havoc on the Prawn and the first morning, the Rock Star found himself blearily blinking at her in the kitchen at 4 am. This was also the setting for one of her best quotes of the trip. The Rock Star had just turned on the coffee maker, which began making it’s burbling noises, startling the Prawn.

After just about jumping out of her skin, she declared. “Okay. Not scary. Just man having a wee.”

First of all…I HAVE A CHILD WHO NOT ONLY RECOGNIZES THE SOUND OF SOMEONE HAVING A WEE, BUT CAN TELL ME ABOUT IT. Secondly, I think perhaps that we need to have a chat with Boy Racer about leaving the bathroom door ajar when he uses the toilet in our flat.

The Rock Star and I took a little grown-up excursion to the beach during the second week of our visit. We wondered how the Prawn would take being abandoned with her grandparents for two days, but truth to be told, we ended up missing her far more than she did us. Oh, those two other people that are usually around? What were they called? This was pretty much the Prawn’s reaction to our absence.

I’ve not been to Ocean City since Senior Week way back in the mists of time when I graduated from high school. (During this visit, Virginia and I found a truly depressing photo of us taken during that week and wondered WHY IN THE HELL we weren’t wearing itty bitty bikinis when we both had the bodies for it.) My memories from those three days aren’t very clear. This isn’t due to alcohol consumption (I was in a slightly sanctimonious phase at the time, apparently) but rather just because I’m old. Virginia reminded me that aside from the reading on the beach and eating junk food, she and I and our third compatriot in mischief spent an evening building a giant sand penis. (Maybe not quite so sanctimonious.)

The Rock Star and I refrained from any sand sculpture during our visit. Sadly, we got the worst weather of the week for our visit and spent most of our one full day at the shore either indoors (we went to see “Star Trek” in a cinema who’s heyday was probably in the mid 50’s, but enjoyed the film, nonetheless.) or walking the boardwalk in sweatshirts. Luckily, the day we arrived was fairly warm and clear, so we indulged in lunch and drinks at Hammerjacks. (I fully indulged my margarita cravings on this holiday since bartenders on this side of the Atlantic seem to be thoroughly incapable of making one that doesn’t taste like grass clippings.) Of course, we also got caught in the mandatory, mid-afternoon downpour. By the time we decided maybe we ought to take shelter, we were already soaked through and trudged the 20 blocks back to our hotel, squishing merrily as we went. (this rainstorm necessitated the purchase of new shoes on the Rock Star’s part as his took nearly 4 days to dry completely.) In the absence of decent weather to sit and read on the beach, we mostly just wandered about aimlessly, (a pursuit that’s curiously satisfying after you have children) ate utter rubbish and discovered a hideous dead puffer fish in the middle of the night by way of my almost stepping on it.

Our encounters with the natural world were not restricted to our journey to the beach. The Rock Star left his shoes on the front porch and when he brought them inside to put on again, he neglected to do what every child raised in the forest is taught to do if your footwear has been outside for any length of time without you; turn them upside down. This resulted in a rather girly scream and a swear in front of the Prawn when the bottom of his foot came into contact with a VERY large toad who then disappeared under the couch, prompting all of the adults in the room to go a little crazy, much to the delight of the child, who spent the chase laughing like a loon. (I was having a shower at the time, however, I could hear the commotion.)

Several days later, we made the unsavoury discovery that the baby birds in a nest on my parents front porch had become cocktail snacks for very small snake. My mother demanded that the offender was removed from the scene of the crime, much to the chagrin of my father, who’s dislike of snakes is well documented. (So much does he dislike them, when he DOES manage to capture one, he’ll put it in a sealed bucket and drive it almost 10 minutes away before releasing it. Therefore, a family phrase, “being driven to Libertytown” has been coined to mean getting something distasteful as far away from you as possible.) The Rock Star, ever game for new experiences, offered to wrangle the serpent, armed only with a bunny shaped oven mitt. Being deemed too small to be deserving of a roadtrip, the offending reptile was released in the woods. However, only hours later, my father nearly stepped on what can only be described a “much larger” identical snake who was obviously coming to protest the treatment of his offspring at the hands of a long-haired, oven mitted buffoon.

Of course, no trip would be complete without some good times luxuriating in the company of family and friends. We got to spend some good times with Virginia and the Phantom Scribbler as well as a quick visit with another high school chum, my parents neighbors (who I’ve known since I was 7) and cousins various. The Prawn heartily enjoyed playing with all of the children of said individuals. Virginia’s Boy became “ MY BOY” to the Prawn, which registered quite high on the cute scale. She also enjoyed frolicking with her first cousins-once-removed in their paddling pool. It’s always satisfying to see your offspring getting on nicely with other people and not having to worry about uttering phrases like, “HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU: NO BITING!” At least not yet.

Our flight back was an unusual one. As we took off, we were keenly aware that the next time we landed on American soil, it would be as immigrants. (Well, two immigrants and one citizen) Although we’ve always known that we were going to migrate back to the States, we’ve now decided that 2010 is the year of the big move. We spent some time on our visit pootling around local communities that we’d like, which was equally exciting and daunting, as there is so much that we need to get done over here first. However, as they turned the lights down in the cabin, we were just pleased to think about the prospect. We were also pleased that the Prawn decided to sleep for nearly the entire flight. (As did I, miracle of miracles)

So we now find ourselves back home in our little flat, having to deal with day to day issues like that strong mildew smell that seems to be coming from the sink, but can’t be beaten by drain cleaner, the creeping damp in the bedroom and the small mountain of laundry piling up in the hamper.

Cest le vie. Back to the routine.

So, apparently, fall has happened while I wasn’t looking.

I should have expected it really, as it is the 18th of September. But when you spend a week pretty much running around in your underwear, it can be easy to forget that, at home, we have, you know, seasons.

It wouldn’t be a holiday for me if it hadn’t begun with a slight amount of chaos. Being newbies at baby travel, we managed to forget a good many things, including copious numbers of Prawn sunhats that I’ve been collecting in anticipation of this trip, most of my clothes (this is the second occasion that I’ve arrived somewhere with little or nothing to wear) and most significantly, the keys to the villa where we were staying. Luckily, the later of these items, we discovered in time for my ever patient father in law to dash back to our flat and then back to the airport at 4 in the morning to get them to us before we passed through security.

Navigating an airport with the Prawn for the first time was a bit of an eye opener. There are few environments MORE hectic and the addition of a baby who most likely needs a bit of sedation just adds a new dimension of tension. Here’s an exercise not for the faint of heart; go through security with a baby on your hip, trying to take off your shoes, belt and handbag and then try to reassemble yourself on the other side, baby still on hip. It’s not so easy.

Our travelling companions were our friends, Mr. Steve, his wife, the Danish Muffin and their one year old son, Coneass the Barbarian. (The Danish Muffin and I met about 3 years ago while working under the bipolar yolk of a common employer) They were a good deal more experienced in travelling with children and managed not to forget anything, despite getting up at 3am for our 6.40am flight. (Note to self- it’s not worth having “an extra day” of holiday if you are far too tired to enjoy it.)

The Prawn surprised us all by passing out completely for nearly an hour, missing take off and the loudest of the chavery that was occurring behind us courtesy of the airport bar. Who needs beer at 5am? At any rate, while the rest of the tiny fleshpods on the plane were screaming their heads off, the Prawn slept, coo-ed and batted her eyelashes at all and sundry.

After spending the obligatory hour and a half at the car rental facility upon our arrival, we finally made it to The Rock Star’s Uncle Investment’s beautiful villa, high on a hill over looking the scrubby hillsides and coastline near Faro. The Rock Star and I spent a weekend there last summer when I was about 8 weeks pregnant and I spent a lot of the time feeling pretty nauseous, so it was good to revisit the place, Prawn in tow, for a slightly less vomit inducing experience.

The pool was the first stop for all of us. The Prawn’s first experience with a large body of water was not exactly an unqualified success. We were probably foolish to try her out after an early morning flight and on an empty stomach, but we have documented video evidence that the Prawn REALLY hated the pool. An ear-piercing hate that she shared with most of the neighbourhood. We were a little disappointed. As the week wore, on, however, subsequent trips into the water were met with much splashing and many smiles.

One often hears the expression, “they’re okay to hang out with, but you wouldn’t want to go on holiday with them” in reference to one’s personal associates. Luckily, Mr. Steve and The Danish Muffin are EXACTLY the kind of people that we wanted to go on holiday with. Besides sharing a common sense of humor, world views and love of books, it was nice to be able to share the experience with another couple with children, as even the most relaxing holiday with children is probably more stressful than an average week at the office. Had we gone with The Rock Star’s brother, BoyRacer and his SO, Trumpet, we would have spent the entire time feeling even MORE stressed about any fussing or shouting. (They are happily luxuriating at the villa this week, in peace and quiet.)

A week with a slightly older child was rather illuminating in a lot of ways. One of these was the incredible variety of children’s television (Uncle Investment has every Sky channel except for the dirty ones) and how infernally creepy a lot of it seems to be. We were introduced finally to the ever popular “Dora the Explorer”, which actually seems to have a good deal going for it other than the fact that the lead character, her family and all of her friends (including an anthropomorphic monkey) spend all of their time shouting. HOLA, DORA! CAN YOU TURN THE VOLUME KNOB DOWN A LITTLE? GRACIAS! Coneass the Barbarian was a big Dora fan, but an even bigger Thomas the Tank Engine fan. This program naturally lends itself to sideline comments by adults. It led to a fairly in-depth and innuendo laced conversation about shunting mail trucks and large funnels.

Portugal is one of the EU’s poorer countries. It seems that a lot of the world’s favourite vacation spots are often poverty ridden and that locals end up cleaning the palatial pads of foreign property investors. The Rock Star remarked that there was little sign of any kind of infrastructure, although there must be one. The roads were one of the signs of this as there were potholes, even on busy stretches of road, that were big enough to swallow any vehicle smaller than a VW Polo. Mr. Steve and the Danish Muffin lost a hubcap to one such pothole, but were lucky enough to spot it the following day as we were heading to the beach. Mr. Steve did a small victory dance with it at the side of the road.

We also got to spend some time relaxing on nearby beaches. We ventured further west on this visit than on our previous one, to the town of Albufiera and one of its rather magnificent rocky beaches, Sao Rafael. The water of the Atlantic around the Algarve was still fairly swimmable. I’ve always loved swimming in the sea apart from getting a huge case of the heebie jeebies about what might be sneaking up on me. Since one of the snack bar’s salad-du-jours included fresh octopus, I regarded everything that brushed against my leg as a potential menace, and scampered for the shore more than once because of errant seaweed. I don’t know why octopi give me a terminal case of the willies as opposed to other ocean dwellers (such as it’s much more dangerous native friend the Portuguese Man O’ War) but they just make me want to crawl out of my skin.

Mr. Steve and the Danish Muffin pretty much had their hands full trying to make sure Coneass didn’t ingest too much sand or get washed out to sea. The Prawn, being pretty much still immobile, made her contribution to the day by having a nappy blow-out so severe that the babygro that she wearing made it into the trash rather than into the laundry. And we shall never speak of that again.

Other than our two excursions to the other nearby beach at Vale Do Lobos (a country club/golf course) we spent most of our time enjoying the villa, snacking copiously, drinking copiously, watching the cricket and the rugby (Mr. Steve and the Rock Star engaged more heavily in this particular activity) and strolling around the grounds. It was not so much a “doing” holiday, but rather a “being” holiday. Just what we needed.

But now we’re back and I’ve had to unpack the sweaters. The Prawn will likely see her first leaf turning soon after her first swim.

Already dreaming of next summer…

Blogapotamus is off to sunnier (hopefully) climes for a week. I shall not be far from broadband, but I’m probably going to spend most of the week trying to keep the Prawn from falling in the pool or drinking daddy’s rum, so I may check in midweek.

Can someone pause the web until I get back?

It seems that I start an inordinate number of travelogues with references to the Wrath of God. Its not that I believe that god has got anything against us personally, but all I’m saying is that rivers of blood or a plague of frogs falling from the overhead lockers wouldn’t be entirely unexpected.

After 11 years of trans-Atlantic travel, The Rock Star and I like to think of ourselves as fairly seasoned travelers, accustomed to delays and fuckwittery in all of their many forms. However, around Christmastime, something comes over the traveling public at large that reduces us all to the level of beasts of the field, lowing and shuffling ever forward to our doom through the aeronautical abattoir.

Arriving 3 hours before our flight departed seemed like a sensible precaution during the busy holiday period. Indeed, this would have been plenty of time had it not been that the whole population of greater London hadn’t had the same idea.

It never ceases to amaze me how airports seem to drain people of common sense. In the HOUR AND FORTY FIVE MINUTES we spent queuing for check in, the 20 minutes in security and the relatively short queue at the gate (the flight was boarding, necessitating a 10 minute, fast-paced yomp through the concourse. I discovered why one never sees pregnant sprinters.) we saw at least 50 examples of prime rib, grade A stupidity including a group of Chinese students who spoke flawless English, but couldn’t seem to understand the concept of emptying their pockets before going through a metal detector and an American student who’d obviously had a bad morning and eventually dealt with the situation by wailing, “I JUST WANT TO GO HOME!” over and over at the top of her voice. I have had similar days in airports, but have I never believed that a biblical style breakdown was going to get me anywhere.

I have rarely been so pleased to actually get ONTO an airplane in my life, despite the fact that I discovered that my Prawn-enhanced girth now no longer allowed me to fit comfortably into an average airline seat. To make matters worse, in a stunning display of stupid design, my personal entertainment system’s controller was wedged against my thigh, making it highly likely that anytime I shifted slightly, I ended up either calling the cabin steward, ordering duty-free or watching the Spongebob Squarepants movie.

However, the trip and all it’s little discomforts have been well worth it ever since arriving back at my parent’s beautiful woodland home, full of all the comforts of Christmastime. Although the weather has been vaguely freakish (72 degrees F yesterday) we have felt very jolly indeed. (As have the frogs in my parent’s pond who were enjoying their brief sunbathing session before settling down in the mud for the winter) We have eaten heartily, shopped decadently (new clothes at almost $1.85 to the pound) and very much enjoyed watching the trio of cats that inhabit the house poke their be-whiskered noses into anything and everything.(luggage, wrapping paper, the bowl of cereal that you’re currently eating, etc)

Hope everyone else is beginning to wind down for the holiday and that the Travel Gods take you safely to your destinations!

The Rock Star and I returned from sunny Portugal on Tuesday evening. Just thought I’d post the travelogue.

July 15 

When the Rock Star and I booked our little weekend getaway to Portugal, like most bargain travellers, we opted to fly with Easyjet. However, upon boarding this afternoon we might have been forgiven for believing that we had walked onto The Winky McStinkypants Algarve Nursery Flight.

It strikes me as strange that people travel with very small children voluntarily. The sheer volume of babies in just the seats around us is quite astonishing. While you expect this volume of toddler travel chaos round about Christmas time, it is simply astounding that this many people with infants would choose to recreate the Seventh Circle of Travel Hell for themselves and fellow passengers. Upon landing, the child in the window seat opposite couldn’t have screamed louder had his mother repeatedly jabbed him in the eye with a fork.

A vacation with a 3 month old isn’t really a vacation, is it?

Other people suck.

July 16

The raging lefty in me has some guilt about vacationing in places like Portugal. I guess I can still hear my Dad’s annual answer to the question “Why can’t we go on vacation somewhere like Jamaica?”

“Because I don’t want to be staying in a comfortable hotel and know that 90% of the population of the island is living in a shanty town a mile from where we’re drinking cocktails on the beach.”

That argument didn’t cut much mustard with me when I was a kid who really wanted to go to some exotic beach somewhere, but driving up to a private 2.5 million euro villa, it was hard to miss the fact that we were passing mule driven carts and crumbling abandoned houses. Portugal is actually one of the most economically challenged counties in the EU and it wasn’t difficult to see evidence.

The influx of foreigners building increasingly larger and more luxurious resorts and vacation homes undoubtedly stimulates the country’s economy but it’s hard to let go of a lifetime’s worth of white, western guilt.

However, being skint ourselves dulled the nagging conscience a tad driving through the gates at The Rock Star’s Uncle Investment’s rather fabulous hilltop pad, complete with 6 bedrooms and saltwater pool. The villa was covered with stunning bright flowers that obviously thrive on the hot, dry weather adding to the overall “ohmygodthisplaceisapalace” effect.

The house…is large. To say the least. If you find yourself in the kitchen, it is unlikely that you would be able to notice a family of 5 living in the furthest bedroom. The Rock Star and I spent a good 20 minutes exploring the place before franticly digging though our bag to find our bathing suits and dive-bombing into the pool. (a tremendous amount of restraint on our part, I feel because we’re both total children)

First order of business was sustenance. In our “welcome pack” from Uncle Investment, we were reliably informed of a mini-mart half a mile down the road from the villa’s “neighbourhood” so we got back into our baking VW Polo (why, oh why did we not feel like springing the extra 40 quid for AC?) and soon arrived at said mini-mart, which looked like the backdrop from a Robert Rodriguez film. (Desperado is my all time favourite. The mini mart reminded both of us strongly of the bar. “And another thing….your beer…tastes like piss.” “We know! We piss in it!”)

We sheepishly crept in, expecting to have to communicate via crude sign language, but to our collective Western English speaking shame, we were greeted by the lady proprietor with a cheerful, “It’s hot today, isn’t it?” Before we left, I managed to drop an open pack of spaghetti all over everything. We shoved it back in the pack and bought it anyway. Shame will make you eat things off the floor.

The Rock Star and I spent the rest of the day trying to keep our body core temperatures somewhere approaching normal by alternately floating in the pool and hanging around in our underwear. It’s great to be married to someone who loves the way you look in a bikini even if you’d never go out on the beach in one due to excess flabbage.

We also discovered the joys of Sky television. 4 episodes of The Simpsons in a row? CSI pretty much on demand? Sweeeeeeet. We who languish in the world of regular telly (although digital has made it somewhat more tolerable) appreciated the entertainment wonderland that is satellite. I had to admit to a certain amount of strangeness of sitting on a couch in Portugal and watching tomorrow’s weather forecast from Cornwall when we should, by all rights, have been watching Portuguese soap operas.

After cooking dinner in a kitchen with more floor area than my whole house, we collapsed into bed in anticipation of another strenuous day of relaxing.

July 17

Trying to sleep in further south is no mean feat when the sliding doors in your room are covered by nothing but diaphanous white curtains. But we managed it anyway. Because we’re on holiday. Never mind that bright orange glow behind your eyelids, just go back to sleep.

Round about lunchtime, we decided to venture out of the compound and go exploring. Uncle Investment had left us some directions to one of the nearest beach resorts, Vale do Lobo, so we hopped back into our furnace-like ride, (we’d forgotten to park it under the only tree that shades the drive the day before) rolled down the windows and struck off for the coast.

Vale do Lobo is a planned community of vast villas built around a golf course. It’s very beautiful and almost entirely inhabited by Europeans, although there did seem to be a small but wealthy contingent of Portuguese.

The Rock Star and I strolled the beach for half an hour or so before retiring to a beachfront café staffed by waiters who were undoubtedly surly due to the fact that they were forced to wear uniforms that made them look like giant toddlers whose parents harboured a naval fetish. Being fans of Nando’s here in the UK, we ordered grilled peri-peri chicken and were delighted by an amazing lunch consisting not only of the chicken, but a lovely ripe tomato salad and crispy fries. Mmmmmm.

We stopped in a slightly larger supermarket on the way home in the town of Almancil to insure we wouldn’t have to set foot outside the villa until lunchtime on Monday. The Rock Star bought himself a bottle of good rum- essential to a holiday to make the hours of doing jack pass more pleasurably.

July 19

Looking back at the past few days from the relative discomfort of our flight back to Luton. The Rock Star managed to snag us seats directly by the entrance door to the plane, taking care of his extreme long-leggedness and my mild claustrophobia in one go. I think, in the future, I’d be willing to pay extra to eliminate the stress of where to sit rather than having to fight my fellow passengers tooth and nail for a space on the aisle.

Sunday we did nothing. Absolutely nothing. And we did it all day long. It rocked.

Monday we decided that Vale do Lobo deserved a second shot, plus we both wanted to swim in the sea, which being on the very VERY edge of the Med, was blue and clear and relatively monster free. (Jellyfish are our main combined sea phobia. The Rock Star once kicked a large one as a child, believing it was his brother grabbing him around the ankle. My mother actually got stung by a man-o-war before I was born and still has the scars. So yeah, hating on the jellyfish.)

The sea was cold on first contact, but quickly became tolerable for floating and joyous body surfing with fellow oceanic enthusiasts. A group of young men playing rugby were bobbing up and down not far from us and as young men do, ganged up on one of their number to steal his bathing suit necessitating a rather long and embarrassing walk up the beach with nothing but a strategically placed rugby ball to cover his shame. Luckily, when you’re young and fit, these things matter less than when you’re old and flabby.

We hit yet another beach front restaurant for lunch and tried to hide under the table when several Brits sitting behind us began berating the waiter due to the fact that his “ice cream was melty.” IT’S FUCKING 33 DEGREES IN THE SHADE YOU MORON, AND YOU’RE COMPLAINING BECAUSE YOUR ICE CREAM IS MELTY? We felt obligated to order and eat OUR ice cream with many accompanying yummy noises just to prove that all foreigners were not brain damaged.

In a fit of uncharacteristic deduction, we capped off the day by finding a massive supermarket that Uncle Investment had told us about but neglected to give us directions to. At first, we cleverly thought that our trusty TomTom would assist us, but alas, it chose that moment to expire with the mocking message “Unable to find GPS device” despite me waving the thing in front of its screen and shouting, “It’s right here, you bastard!” (We have also determined that running the program on a PDA is the height of foolishness due to the tendency of such devices to freeze 2 seconds before you need to decide to turn right or left.) Despite being let down by our technology, we managed to find the place and bought a few last supplies for the evening (how we could have been expected to survive until morning without a 6 pack of chocolate Cornettos, I have no idea) and a bottle of champers to leave for Uncle Investment’s family to say thanks for letting us stay in your castle.

We ended up the evening by watching the beginning of the reality series “Rockstar: Supernova” which, being the only reality show that we’ve ever found in any way gripping, is, of course on satellite, which we don’t have, so nuts to that. Being told by a former guitarist of Guns N Roses that you suck has to be pretty harsh, but all in all, the entrants picked to feature on the show all warranted their places talent-wise, which is rare of shows such as this. Really entertaining and very rock and roll. If you have access to Sky, it’s well worth a watch. As long as you tell us what happens.

So as we end our first ever do-nothing holiday, we fly back Britain-wards refreshed and ready to re-start normal life.

Now if only that baby would stop screaming in my ear.

Holy frejoles, Batman! This is where the Rock Star and I heading for a long weekend!

The Rock Star has an extended family member who’s got a bob or two to rub together, the result being this palatial villa in the Algarve where the two of us are going to spend some time cavorting in the pool and enjoying the seaview. We’ve had all manner of suggestions of things to do in the area, but to be honest, I think most of our time will be spent sitting and lying on various pieces of outdoor furniture.

Hooray for holidays!

Day one: In Which the travellers have a Very Bad Day

On other holidays I’ve often remarked upon the certain “wrath of god” feel that pervades the whole affair. And little says wrath of god more plainly than spending 3 hours on a broken aircraft while the people in front of you (who can charitably be described as “knobheads” and will most likely be in the room next to us in our hotel) slowly work their way through 4 bottles of duty-free champagne.

It’s coming up on 7pm; round about the time we should have been settling into our rooms in Chamonix. Instead, we have only just gained the sky after having been shuttled from pillar to post and back.

Planes are machines just like your car or your cell phone; occasionally they break when someone drops them in a bowl of washing up or runs them into the back of an un-licensed Pakistani driver on a roundabout, prompting repair. I suppose, instead of being bitter about sitting on a broken plane for 3 hours, that I should be grateful that I was sitting aboard it on the ground rather than plummeting to my doom.

Right around the time the book that I bought to amuse myself for the short 1.5 hour flight was starting to supremely irritate me due to it’s utter inability to live up to it’s two major cover reviews, (”amazing” and “supremely funny”) we were finally informed that our aircraft was in fact completely fucked and we would be disembarking to board one more likely get us off the ground.

Due, no doubt, to our presence in this scenario, the driver of the bus we were loaded onto suffered from severe brain damage, resulting in every passenger from our flight being dropped off at the wrong door and having to go through airport security a second time. I have to admit to a certain amount of quiet, disbelieving rage over this turn of events, but at least I didn’t sink to the level of abusing the BAA stewards who were forced to conduct the event, unlike many other disgruntled passengers. I DID however feel like abusing the bored looking British Airways employee who was standing in the corner like a lemon and completely unable to be of any assistance whatsoever.

Our broken-spirited little party trudged back to the terminal to collect our highly compensatory £5 British Airways meal voucher with which to purchase not very much before almost immediately being called to board our second aircraft. (A word to the wise; a half toasted ham and cheese panini does not sit comfortably on a harassed stomach.)

One would think that after the previous 5 hours that fate could have no more in store for us, but due to the lateness of the hour, the runway traffic had increased substantially, and even more cleverly, someone in business class decided they’d had Just About Enough and threw a punch at a steward causing us to spend yet another hour imprisoned on a motionless aircraft with our increasingly intoxicated friends in the row ahead of us who passed the time by telling stimulating drinking stories.

Wanker 1: So like, this guy I know, yeah? He was doing a Guinness Tower and he must have just necked a hot dog just before cause he was like all BLAH all over his chair and like BLAH all over the floor and then he finished the rest!

Wankers 2 and 3: Cool! Nasty! Etc!

Me:(to The Rock Star) Why don’t fuselages ever rip off and suck people out of planes when you need them to?

Decending into Geneva now and praying for better luck on the slopes tomorrow.

Day 2: In Which Blogapotamus and her Merry Band are left to Fend For Themselves and learn to Respect The Mountain

People often try to warn you about package holidays. But having had such a fantastic time in Banff, Alberta last season, we took a chance and booked with a company called Ski Weekend for our trip to Chamonix.

Now, fair enough that we arrived 5 hours later than scheduled last night and our rep, a British snowbunny called Fleur was probably making her third trip of the day to Geneva with a French bus driver who’s musical taste can only be described as eccentric, but LITERALLY 2 minutes after dropping us off at our hotel, she disappeared off the face of the earth, to deal with the bewildering bus system, where to pick up The Ginger ManTart’s rental skis and NO clue as to which resort best suited our meagre skills.

Despite the confusion of the beginning of the day, there is little more fantastic sight outside you window to wake up to than this.

That, in combination with a delightful breakfast of cereal, tea and French breadstuffs served to somewhat eliminate the stresses of the previous day. In England, we think we know how to make French bread. We are obviously smoking something.

Outside, the snow was beginning to fall at a fair old pace, making for a supremely picturesque Alpine scene when we finally arrived in Chamonix town proper. Every vision of cowbells and cuckoo clocks you’ve ever associated with the Alps is utterly true, down to the painted sprays of Edelweiss on the carved cedar balconies. It must be strange to be a resident of such a beautiful cliché, although the downside is obviously all the fat foreigners in neon one-sies and loads of ski clobber clogging up your busses and slaughtering your language.

After finally locating the hire shop and acquiring ski kit for the Ginger ManTart, we were ready to tackle the mountain. Purely at random, and due to the lack of advice from the elusive Fleur, we chose an area called La Brevent for our first day’s foray into the world of snowsport. (also because it happened to be the destination of the first bus that turned up, so we decided to take our chances rather than spend 15 more minutes at the bus stop with a bunch of surly Germans.)

All of us class ourselves as beginners as far as skill goes, so we were pleased to see the area offered a few green and blue runs, least likely to kill or maim us in any way. However, we were unaware of the Alpine resort practice of downgrading harder slopes if they don’t actually HAVE any beginner runs in order to attract people of all skill levels. Had we had this information, we should not have been surprised to encounter a god almighty drop at the beginning of our very first run, prompting a good deal of swearing and the sound of metal edges grating hard against the slope.

Most people who have read about my previous experiences with bits of slippery wood strapped to my feet might be forgiven for wondering what possesses me to keep at it. I am a complete gimp when it comes to moving from place to place in everyday life. At any given moment in time, I am likely to be sporting 5 to 7 bruises, just from being alive. But for some ungodly reason, when on a snowboard, grace is forced upon me, even for the 5 minutes I manage to stay upright before going head first into a snowbank. So even on our first day back on proper snow in a little over a year, I was already enjoying myself.

Lunch was a cheerful affair; a celebration of surviving our first morning on intermediate runs and taking the piss out of BoyRacer’s goggles, which made him look like The Fly. (earning him the moniker “Bug Boy” for what I imagine will be the rest of the holiday.) After a fairly short pizza and beer filled respite, we decided to head back out to face the afternoon.

 You often hear stories about hikers and climbers getting caught out on mountains when the weather suddenly takes a turn for the worse. Just as we decided that we were finished, a storm, which had spent most of the day trying to decide whether or not to happen, happened with the might of god’s own fury. There was an instant whiteout, obscuring all routes off the mountain, and stinging snow that found it’s way into everything, including the inside of hats and goggles. Tired from a day on the slopes, we realized we still had to make it down an unfamiliar course with a steep drop on the right hand side completely blind to get to the gondola station.

It was at that point that I don’t mind telling you that I suffered a slight lapse in reason, although it could probably be more accurately described as a meltdown. And the Rock Star, in a supreme display of why I married him in the first place, picked up my board and we walked down the course doing our best Captain Oates impressions. (”I’m going out. I may be some time.”)

Back in the comfort of our rooms and after orgasmicaly hot showers, we felt ready to forage for some grub. Our late arrival the previous evening had meant that we missed dinner, forcing the Rock Star and I to survive on a strategically squirreled away flapjack, so the four of us were ready for a real slap-up meal to fill our bellies.

Tangent who’s relevance will become clear: There is likely not a soul on the planet that has not had experience with the cool kids club. They’re anywhere where people gather in large groups. No one can say WHY they’re cool, but they seem to recognize their own and band together in a fraternity of exclusivity.

Most likely, you were not in the cool kids club. And when you were younger, it might have bothered you. But as you got older, you realized two things about the cool kids club. One, no one actually believed in their inherent coolness except for them and two, that they’re generally assholes.

So, when we walked into the restaurant next door to our hotel and found ourselves smack dab in the middle of one such club, we were much vexed. The place was owned and run by an Aussie ex-pat and a dozen of his snowrat mates for the express purpose of serving tiny portions of mediocre food to unsuspecting tourists and laughing discreetly at them from behind the bar for their astonishing lack of coolness. (i.e. for having jobs and doing more constructive things than smoking dope all day long) But being hungry as we were and seeing as how the walk into town was 20 minutes long and very cold, we were prepared to suffer the atmosphere.

The set fare consisted of mussels, (which they mercifully ran out of, allowing us to dine upon rocket, cherry tomato and parmesan salad instead) deep fried squid stuffed with crab, (which they did NOT run out of. Both the Rock Star and BoyRacer can’t stand crab and squid makes me gag) chips (thank god) and Banoffee Pie. (inarguably the best part of the meal)

Following the irritating theme of the holiday thus far, we were unable to pay by credit card and were shouted at by one of the legions of cool for not closing the door properly on the way out. The Ginger ManTart and BoyRacer were considering returning after hours to wee on their windows, but we decided the last thing our holiday needed was an evening in a French jail, so we now retire in anticipation of another taxing day on the slopes.

Day Three: In Which the travellers become imprisoned in Deep Snowdrifts and begin to wonder Why We Do This To Ourselves

I have to admit to a certain degree of envy when it comes to European language skills. Hearing the chatter around the breakfast nook this morning, I listened to Germans and Scandinavians switch effortlessly to French to communicate with our hostess while we native English speakers were reduced to clumsy guidebook dialect and sign language.

“Er, je vous dres…um…one of those. Like that… homme…has over there. Yeah…oui, un of those.”

Our hostess does speak English, of course, but only when it becomes obvious that the conversation is heading in the direction of us speaking slowly to her in very loud voices. Luckily, the extent of what we have to say to eachother is limited to choosing coffee, tea or chocolate for breakfast, so we are spared our Anglo-centric humiliation.

For our second day on the piste, we chose to return to La Brevent to give some of the more challenging runs we’d been on the day before a try. There’d been a good deal of snow overnight and the slopes were lovely and groomed in places. However, other nooks and crannies hid deep powder drifts ready to swallow the unwary skier or boarder whole; rather like being stuck inside a giant marshmallow. (we had seen people from the lifts carrying shovels on their backs and wondered why.)

All four of us spent some time fighting our way out of these snowy traps while the others pointed and laughed. BoyRacer suffered a “yard sale” (a term denoting a fall in which the person in question looses many items of gear or clothing, making a long and embarrassing walk up the hill to retrieve them necessary) fairly early on in the day and I managed to get half a slope’s worth of powder down my sallopets, but on the whole, it was another satisfying day on the hill, despite the fog which made distinguishing terrain slightly tricky. White outs on the hill are a bit like going blind in reverse. At one point I lost the boys and sat on the crest of a hill dejectedly only to discover I was less than 100 feet from the lift and the rest of my merry band.

Tired as we were, we were hoping for a speedy arrival of the bus that would take us from Chamonix town centre to our hotel. However, after waiting for nearly an hour, we determined that we were probably onto a lost cause and made the long and chilly walk back with all of our clobber. While snowboard boots are NOT made for walking, they are, in fact, closer to real shoes than ski boots and I didn’t envy BoyRacer’s and The GMT’s uncomfortable yomp back to the hotel, Frankenstein style.

After massaging some life back into our aching feet and defrosting in our rooms for an hour and a half, we caught the last bus of the evening into town to enjoy a meal free of stupidity and hopefully full of, you know, food.

We were rewarded on both counts; After finding a lovely little underground bistro (which was apparently 300 years old and previously used for housing sheep, cheese and wine, although probably not all at the same time) we indulged in some muscle repairing protein in the guise of bloody steaks, lovely crispy chips and roast veggies. The hot fudge brownie I had for desert probably didn’t do much for my muscles, but it was pretty tasty nonetheless.

Prepared this time for a frosty night time walk back to the hotel in proper footwear, the boys indulged in a mile long snowball fight while I marched ahead, listening to the cold carnage taking place behind me.

Another day in the Big Chill over. Potamus Rex over and out.

Day Four: In Which the travellers remember why they came on holiday In The First Place

Brochures for ski holidays always look completely idyllic. Bright blue skies, sparkling powder, snow covered trees. Our first two days on the slopes, while fun and challenging, were rather grey, dull affairs; mountains shyly peaking through curtains of mist only to blush and hide again moments later. But our third day dawned bright, clear and cold; perfect weather for hurtling down hills.

Although we were tempted to stick with the familiar, we ventured to another area called Les Houches which turned out to be the best decision we made during the entire holiday. Les Houches comprises several different areas including Bellevue and Prarion. We went to the latter and moments later were wizzing up through the pine trees in little alien pods, snowboards hanging out of side pockets as if to enjoy the view.

The view from the top was utterly breathtaking and we were eager to scout out good runs down the mountain. The first one we tried was a blue course, which seemed to suit the skiers fine. Long sections of only slightly graduated slope are fine if you happen to be in possession of poles to push yourself along with, but if you’re a snowboarder who’s still a little unsteady on their feet, a long section of flat means a very undignified bunny hop extravaganza which not only makes you look as if you’ve been hooked like a prize Marlin but is utterly exhausting. At several points, BoyRacer and The Ginger ManTart alternately dragged or pushed our sorry asses to the next steep incline in order to facilitate the run. I dearly wish I’d managed to get a picture of the GMT with his head in the Rock Star’s back, pushing him along like an angry bull.

Wearying of this arrangement, The Rock Star and I decided to take our chances with a red run which turned out to be a real thrill ride from top to bottom. Not being the overly adventurous type, (due to aformentioned accidents) I stayed on this run and several other connecting ones for the rest of the day, happily carving my way down steep slopes. The Rock Star, however, is ALWAYS up for trying anything once, and in that spirit chose to undertake a black run.

The colour coding, we think, has more to do with obstacles rather than relative steepness. The more things placed in your path that you can potentially go splat against determines the difficulty of the slope. Of course, a sheer drop off the side of a mountain, trees, rocks or no is probably going to merit a black rating, but the course The Rock Star chose was simply littered with obstacles and, obviously for the amusement of others, ran directly under the chairlift so that your humiliation could be witnessed by all. One boarder we saw attempted a spectacular back flip into a dip and disappeared in a spray of powder to thunderous applause.

At any rate, my man made it down safely, albeit slowly and snow covered and spent the rest of the day smirking quietly to himself over his achievement.

The end of the day drew nigh and although we were sad that our holiday was essentially at an end, we decided that rather than take the alien pods back down the mountain, we’d try the ski-out instead; a course that ran directly down the mountain to the car park. Tired as I was, I’m so grateful the Rock Star convinced me to do it; the long shadows of afternoon were dramatic on the peaks in the distance and snow blew off the tops like long tendrils of white hair. Powder from the trees sparkled in the air and although we were joined by a great many others on the way down, the quiet was heavenly. It was a brilliant run down too; well groomed and super fun for carving.

That night in town, we indulged in our last après’ ski meal at a brassiere across the street from where we’d eaten the previous evening. BoyRacer ordered 4 “grand biers” to celebrate a break/sprain/major injury free holiday and we were all vaguely surprised when we each received a full litre and a half of the stuff in glasses you could easily beat a horse to death with. Europeans love their bier; and charging extortionate rates for it as well. We discovered that each of our colossal beverages had cost almost 14 euros; 10 pounds! I again surrendered to the siren song of pudding; this time, chocolate crepes with vanilla ice cream. Dribble.

Ajourning to a mountain themed bar, we relaxed with nightcaps while being suffocated by French cigarette smoke and watching videos of people who were obviously being paid by companies like Burton, Quicksilver and Salomon to travel the world, act like complete tools and occasionally hurl themselves over cliffs wearing skiis. The crashes, at least, were spectacular, eliciting appreciative groans from the entire establishment.

After the 4 grand biers, however, none of us found that we had much stamina for drinking and so quit the place in favour of a lightning fast trot pack to Hotel des Lacs. Clear skies make for great pictures, but also for VERY cold weather. BoyRacer had sadly underdressed for the occasion so he and the GMT jogged while the Rock Star and I took a more leisurely pace to enjoy the mountains by moonlight.

And so we retire for our last night among the Alps.

Day Five: In Which the travellers will be Very Grateful to return

It’s a shame that the travelling part of travelling is usually the worst part of the travelling experience; it’s also the part that you begin and end with, so it has a way of sticking out in your head. Our less than smooth journey out had put us off on the wrong foot, so we were determined to have a hassle free experience on the way back. (although The GMT was not entirely sure he wouldn’t have something to say to our Amazing Disappearing Rep when she returned with the bus to pick us up)

It was a relaxing enough morning. We had to vacate our rooms by 11, but the hotel boasted a very small bar that we reclined in until 1, periodically ordering hot chocolates from the hostess, who, by this time, was probably ready to have us all out of her hair. We took brief walks out in the Alpine sunshine, took pictures and ruminated over the happening of the last 3 days.

Finally, the coach arrived and a woman that we assumed was our rep Fleur (we hadn’t gotten a good enough look at her on Thursday night to be sure) cheerfully hoped we’d had a nice weekend and bundled us, along with some of our equally disgruntled tourmates aboard for the trip back to Geneva. The majestic scenery on the way back was slightly marred by the in-bus movie that Fleur had chosen for our viewing pleasure; House of Flying Daggers.

The Rock Star and I own this film, although, in our defence, we had heard it was a masterpiece before we bought it. One thing I CAN say is that the Chinese have the cinematography thing sewn up. I mean, really nailed. Visually, it’s a stunning film. But NOTHING REALLY HAPPENS.

Major plot elements:

A Man visits a brothel

A Woman does a dance. With beans.

A bunch of fighting happens

A man sits on his horse in the woods. Twice.

A bunch more fighting happens, but this time, in the snow.

The point of all of this is that it’s hard to enjoy the majesty of one of the world’s most beautiful mountain ranges with hundreds of flying Chinese people screaming in your ear.

Upon arriving at the airport in Geneva, the bus driver, who had loaded our bags into the vehicle, went to have a smoke, leaving us to unpack the luggage compartment ourselves while Fleur watched us impassively from the sidelines. “Thanks for the GREAT WEEKEND!” I shouted at her from inside the bowels of the bus, trying to retrieve my board.

After a mild fiasco at the BA check-in counter involving automated check-in machines, we were finally shot of our luggage and managed to find a quiet corner of the building in which to eat incredibly expensive sandwiches.

The flight on the way home was remarkably uneventful, possibly due to the presence in First Class of Richard Branson.

We saw him in the departure lounge and wondered what the hell the billionare CEO of Virgin Atlantic was doing on a British Airways puddle jump flight from Geneva to London. I mean, doesn’t a guy who owns a global airline, train company, finance business, bridal range, music stores and mobile phone provider have enough beans lying around for a private plane of some sort?

His presence, however, relaxed the GMT, who’s a mildly jittery flier. “I was glad to see him get on,” he said, “There’s no way a BA flight carrying Richard Branson is going to go down in flames. The headlines would just be too big.”

Everybody’s favourite rich guy made the stewards very unhappy, however. They were literally tripping over themselves for the whole flight and being rather short when dealing with requests from the plebes at the back. (i.e. us) No one responds well to having the enemy in their foxhole. Even the pilot was not immune; the landing was executed in a haphazard fashion prompting a group “OOF!” from the entire aircraft. My guess is that this is why Richard Branson flies BA; just to see everyone utterly lose their cool. If I was him, I’d probably do it too.

And so I come to the end of this missive. We made it there, we had some laughs, saw and drank inspiring things, made short work of hills and made it back, all in the space of 5 days. And while it’s back to work tomorrow, the aches in our bones will remind us fondly of the mountains for days to come.