The sunshine state

Well I survived the flight.

In fact it was almost enjoyable. One small blip a couple of minutes after take off when it felt like the engines had stopped, but other than that all ok, which was lucky as I had managed not to be sat next to an attractive chap who wouldn't have minded holding my hand while I panicked mildly, and instead was next to a senior-parent age couple who bickered the length of the journey. The food was shockingly bad - some potato and sun-dried tomato salad in a mistard dressing (which surely should have been nice??), chicken curry and a strawberry cheesecake - but coming on the heels of a double vodka and diet coke and accompanied by a bottle of white wine, I ate it anyway. I managed to cram in 4 films, literally vibrating with laughter during The Hangover (which I saw earlier this year with the boy nextdoor but was more than happy to watch again), did some brain training on the ds, and had a bit of a listen to the iPod and then we were landing in sunny Florida.

Immigration seemed to take forever which I still don't understand as when I was called I whizzed through the electronic finger-printing and eye-picture palaver (oh how it took me back to the happy day of trying to cross the US border from Vancouver and facing fifteen minutes of aggressive questioning from a border-control man with the emotional empathy of a newt), rescued my case from the conveyor belt and headed out into the muggy heat. BB was there, ready to chauffeur me back to the hotel before introducing me to a work colleague and the three of us heading out for dinner where I was confronted with an enormous caesar salad with croutons the size of a small baby and which, despite my protestations that I really wasn't hungry, I almost managed to polish off.

Today was jetlag recovery day which saw me wander down to the hotel pool about half past ten to discover that I would be its only inhabitant for most of the day. I watched geckos climb trees and jump on to signposts, read, swam, sang along to the iPod, spotted dolphins frolicking in the bay, drank water, floated in the pool, completed some puzzles and turned a glowing shade of red, delirious that had I been at home I would have spent the day in work. BB suggested we finish it off by driving to the beach to watch the sun set across white sand and the Gulf of Mexico before heading to Frenchy's for grouper sandwiches and Bud Light Lime, which sounds rank but is actually a revelation. All in all, a pretty good friday, although my slightly warm back would currently suggest otherwise.

So it's an early night tonight, after a soak in some aftersun.

Flying...

I hate flying. Taking off specifically. I haven’t always hated it – I remember flights as a child when I was buzzing with excitement at the airport and again as we wooshed up the runway, and then at everything from the toilets in the plane to the trays with sections for the food to the boiled sweets to stop my ears popping. But as I’ve got older, I enjoy it less and less, which I put down to a rather unpleasant short-haul budget airline flight a few years ago; I now spend take-off either gripping the hand of my companion or holding my St Christopher (not religious, I just like it). I love airports though, and once I’m up in the air, I’m fine, it’s just that take off bit that I particularly hate. Anyway this is all very problematic as I'm currently sat in an airport about to board a plane for about twelve hours heading to the states to meet up with the big brother. Soon I’ll be going through the routine of counting the seatbacks to the nearest exit as I board (apparently it could save me in the event of a dark descent), working out what I can watch on the tv to while away the many hours, and debating whether aspirin to thin the blood will react badly with sleeping tablets which will have me prone in a DVT-inviting position for daylight hours. In the meantime there is shopping to be done.

I haven’t flown solo for years, not since I was travelling. The last few plane trips I’ve taken have been package holidays or short trips abroad, and I’ve always been with a friend, so they’re on hand to keep me entertained with food and drink and thinking about things other than take-off. Shopping in the terminal and wondering about the contents of the snack packs made up (either by the birthday girl or me) to compensate for not having paid for the over-priced and underly-pleasant sandwiches or hot meals handed round on planes these days (I'm sure the meals were better in the old days in those sectioned trays) managed to hold my attention. But today it's just little old me - I imagine there will be wine involved very soon…

Which is bad as I have a small hangover this morning. Went out last night with the lawyer to see a singer/DJ/producer who had us dancing and waving our hands in the air for what seemed like hours, but was in fact seventy minutes. I'm not sure if that was in part due to the vodka consumed before, or cider consumed during, or a dinner of a handful of chocolate minstrels. Either way, it was a fabulous night, and the journey home seemed to flash by in a tipsy haze. Nice.

It seems like I've been drinking since last week as the weekend was another one spent in the east. A night out with the bst friend and the young uns on friday was enlightening as I made cultural references to long-gone TV shows which made me realise the eight years or so that I have on them, although strangely when I'm actually with them, I don't seem to feel that way. I think in my head I'm somewhere between 19 and 24 anyway. Saturday night we celebrated another 30th birthday with a meal and a couple of drinks, and then a longing to get home and get to bed... Football on sunday saw my team stage a glorious comeback to draw with a richer, better, more glamourous club. Fabulous, well done boys.

And then there was MNC. The boy nextdoor came along with the brunette and I for an evening of cocktails and deal-food in a restaurant not far from the office. A lemon sherbert (vodka, limoncello, sugar and ice) was pure alcohol which i blamed for my inability to get my words out later in the evening. A mango and bourbon creation later on wasn't anywhere near as fun which was a shame. The brunette and I had more than our share of cheap house white wine (the boy wasn't drinking) and by about 9.30 I was giggling. Although that could have been some of the inappropriate conversations we were having; it's my mission in life to make the boy nextdoor blush, poor lamb.

So it's time for me to go. The gate is open. Wish me luck.

BB here I come.

A week in an hour

No-one likes working late do they? Watching the sunset as you’re still sat at your desk, watching the pc, waiting for that moment of inspiration to hit, it’s all a bit soul-destroying, especially when a boss makes a comment along the lines of, “Why are you still here? The rest of my team are in the pub.” It’s not that I’m unpopular, it’s just that tonight, I really can’t go out, I have to go to a work evening class. And at my work, there’s no drinking on the job. Ever. So here I am. I’ve more than done my hours today, so it gives me a chance to think about the last week…

Monday night saw the second meeting of the monday night club (MNC), with the brunette and I deciding to switch venues in our pursuit of bargainous wine in one of the most ridiculously priced drinking areas I know. So we ended up in a Wetherspoons. Anywhere that you can get a decent bottle of rose for £7.49, which still a week from pay day I could just about manage, seems like a winner to me. And the food's alright. I mean it's not brilliant, but if you're there and you're drinking then it hits the spot, and there's a healthy range of condiments in handy snack packs too (I do pinch a few, but not on the scale of the goody bags that the birthday girl and I wandered off with at the half marathon - btw 2hrs, 29m, well done dizzy! - or anything like that). One tip though, the sticky toffee pudding is to die for. Seriously. One bottle led to another, as they do, and I cried off a third much to the brunette's disgust.


The next morning I woke up early to get some healthy swimming in with a bit of a thick head. This would explain how I managed to get a couple of minutes down the road before realising that the reason I couldn't see the people at the bus stop was not because miraculously there weren't any, I just didn't have my glasses on. I skipped back home and began the day again. I shouldn't have bothered. I should have got back into bed and written the day off as all manner of calamaties came my way: choking on a mid-morning carrot, burning my finger on a cup-a-soup (tomato and basil, flavour-fans) and then soaking myself with cold water when attempting to get a glass of water. It was only when the man who can pointed out that, although not a friday, it was indeed the 13th of the month that it all started to make sense and so I headed for the hills. Or rather my flat and an early night.

The next night the birthday girl was on a work trip in town and we met up and headed east to a gymnastics competition, where we were almost trampled under foot by hordes of mini-gymettes and tried to stifle giggles when the unfortunate contestants fell off their aparatus. Cruel I know, but funny...

At about 4pm on friday, I was sitting happily at my desk when one of the guys I used to work with mentioned that some others in my old team were in the local, just for a couple you understand. So I packed up and skipped down to join them. One vodka led to another and another, and then there was cider involved, and then, horror of horrors, there was karaoke. I don't remember volunteering to get up and sing/screech with the girls, but there's video floating around on an iPhone somewhere which would suggest the opposite (btw - I saw it on monday morning and it all came flooding back), and the hurty head on the saturday confirmed it.

So saturday should have been spent on the sofa recuperating after the week, but instead the birthday girl and dizzy hit the town, and with our raging hangovers in tow, we spent the day celebrating the birthday of dizzy's bgff in the rainbow part of the city by eating burgers, drinking milkshakes and vodka (not together, although it may have been an option), and checking out the guys who were so not interested in us. By 8, the week was starting to catch up with us, and so birthday girl and I headed back to mine where we watched TV and cheered on the x-factor looky-likey's looky likey. He's doing well, keep those fingers crossed...

What to eat before a long run?

Could I run a marathon? The obvious answer is no.

I'm not dramatically unfit: I swim regularly, can manage the occasional jog and not so long ago managed to run almost a whole 5km (although it was spurred on by the competitive scouser) in what was supposed to be a fun run. But much more than that and I'm struggling. Every year I watch a world famous marathon, sometimes on the TV, sometimes from the roadside, and vow that next year I will apply, develop a stringent training regime and commit myself to finishing in a decent time. So far I've not managed to even apply, let alone the rest. I'm lacking in commitment, especially if I'm committing to going out x number of nights a week, pounding the pavement when I could be in a bar with a nice glass of wine, or on the sofa, or anywhere else warm and lazy.

I'm thinking about this because the dizzy blonde and the birthday girl have just arrived as dizzy is running a half-marathon tomorrow, raising money for a children's hospital which cared for her nephew when he wasn't well. She's currently in the kitchen preparing a healthy and carb-laden last supper, whilst the birthday girl and I sip wine, eat nachos and hummus and plan fajitas for tea later. She's frankly putting us to shame, both now, and when she got up last weekend when we were stumbling around with hangovers, and went for a run and a swim. Birthday girl and I will be in support tomorrow, stickered-up and waving and shouting and encouraging her on her way round the course but it's not really the same, is it?

Maybe she'll return the favour if I ever get my arse into gear. Something tells me it could be a long wait... In the meantime, good luck dizzy - we'll see you at the end for a celebratory drink.

TFI friday

I do love an early night. There’s something comforting as the nights get darker and chillier earlier about wrapping up under a nice duvet at a time when a lot of people are still contemplating dinner. I’m a big believer in a feather duvet and pillows and thank my lucky stars I’m not allergic to those and having to make do with synthetic-fibre replacements. I have a brother who suffers from this type of allergy and I feel a little bit sad for him that he doesn’t get to experience the way your head sinks into a feather pillow, and the duvet just flops around you.

Anyway, last night I was tucked up in bed by 8.30, watching TV on the laptop and wondering if it was a bit too sad to turn off the light at that time. I’d been dreaming about a night in, and had almost run out the door from work on the stroke of 5, and was home with a chicken and mushroom pie in the oven by 6. The pie along with some potatoes and frozen broccoli – it’s not far from payday, and I’m living on whatever’s in the cupboards/fridge/freezer – was consumed fairly quickly, the washing up left to one side for tonight and I was ready for my bed.

The night before had been different. I, along with another friend, had gone for dinner at a friend’s, she with the reputation as something of a gourmet chef. By the time we escaped the rush hour traffic and made it to her house it was pushing 8, so luckily the starter of prawns marinated in lemon juice, white wine and garlic only took a couple of minutes to cook, and were served up promptly on rocket with a sweet chilli and sour cream dressing. She first produced a rather lovely sauvignon blanc as accompaniment, but with three, that barely lasted the first course, and by the time dinner proper was served, we’d moved on to a chardonnay. Not a massive fan of chardonnay, but this one was very nice, although could have been aided by how quickly the first bottle had disappeared. Main course was chicken, flattened and stuffed with plums and wensleydale, an odd combination which worked surprisingly well, before the meal was finished off with mini lemon cheesecakes and a cheeseboard. And more wine. A shock move saw the production, and quick removal after a chorus of “Yuck!”, of a white from Transylvania, before the party as a whole moved on to red, firstly a shiraz from Australia. Another one followed although I couldn’t say what it was, profound conversation flowed as it only can after copious amounts of wine, and I woke up yesterday craving a never-ending supply of water and my bed.

And so now it’s Friday and, noting how refreshed I felt this morning after the early night, I promised myself another early escape and night in. Unfortunately a “just the one” invitation has come my way, so who knows where this could end up.

Bon voyage boys

The x-factor looky-likey and new-best-friend-for-the-night leave the country tonight for an epic travelling adventure that sees them visit far-flung places in the east, down under, and out west. I’m hideously jealous, not just because of the fun, excitement, adventures and unexpected that lies in wait for them, but because it reminds me that I’m getting older, and it’s the next generation’s turn to have a go.

In my early twenties, I had a travelling adventure: packing my rucksack and heading off on my own into the sunrise for a year or so. New places meant new experiences to have, new people to meet, new sights to see, new food to eat, new drinks to be drunk and new challenges to not crumble in front of. Some of my best memories are from that trip: pie and mash with friends at the harbour in Sydney; fresh fruit in a hammock on a tropical island; potato wedges, sweet chilli sauce, sour cream and a pub quiz in a red light district; a birthday of canapés with a 90’s pop star, a box of wine in a cab on the way to the beach, and falling into the sea as a finale; cheese sandwiches eaten from a tiny cool bag on a three day train journey; a night of vodka, lemon, lime and bitters in a city bar finishing an hour before work began; over-heated turkey and brie sandwiches on xmas day on a beach; chatting to civil rights campaigners over pancakes from a diner in the deep south… I could go on.

Of course my memories don’t all centre around food and drink; it’s the people I met and the times we had. But sometimes I’m reminded of those times by the taste of a certain bit of cake or a sip of a certain drink. I’m sure it will be the same for the boys, and I know they will have an amazing time. Do I want to go with them and do it all again? Oh yes…

The first few days of October

Mondays are a hard way to start the week. Anyone will tell you that. Especially ones that follow on from weekends consisting of a few too many drinks, too few hours of sleep and plenty of dancing and fun. Weekends like this one.

On friday night, I headed east out of the city for the weekend, to celebrate the turning 30 of the bestest of friends on saturday night. A few hours on the road was rewarded with a nice glass of pink fizz on arrival at the birthday girl's house and a couple of amaretto and coke zeros as we got ready to go out to a get together of friends. A few more drinks, some nattering and gossiping, and a couple of slices of toast at my home-for-the-weekend at 1am finished off the night. The next night, the birthday party, was a marriage of champagne, vodka and jaegerbombs, childhood penny sweets and birthday cake, dancing and laughing until the early hours. The birthday girl, the x-factor looky-likey, the man-who-can, the dizziest of blondes and I ended up outside Subway at 2am, me craving a 6" club on hearty italian, a dream that was cruelly disturbed by the arrival of the cab home. Heading for bed at 4.30, but chatting for hours more, meant the journey home the next day was accompanied by yawns and the need for sugar, satisfied by pancakes in the Little Chef.

So when the brunette suggested a "magically re-filling glass of wine" on monday night in response to my claims of poverty, my initial response was "no", followed swiftly by "I couldn't", followed even more swiftly by "go on then". 5.15 saw us deposited at a high table for tapas-for-a-tenner: a bottle of wine and two tapas dishes from the All Bar One menu. Joined by the boy-next-door, we polished off the shiraz rose in record time, prompting the brunette to dip in for another round. Calamari replaced the goats cheese bruschetta in accompanying the hummus-and-pitta in this round of tapas, but the wine remained the same, although having been left by the boy-next-door, it lasted fractionally longer. A chance meeting with a colleague led to one last bottle, a Marlborough sauvignon blanc belying his kiwi heritage, and the brunette and I stumbling out of the bar around nine, declaring it the perfect way to start the week, and the inaugural meeting of the monday night club.

Maybe that will make monday an easier start to the week?