I have just come back from a long awaited trip to Ibiza with my favourite group of Welsh girls. Three blissful days of sun, sea and spewing in a bin to the sound of David Guetta.
Is what I would like to be writing.
Unfortunately, the night before my flight, I casually showed my parents the horrific black and blue bruises covering the length of my limbs (‘I can’t be QUITE sure Mother, but I think I may have drunkenly fallen down a wishing well!’) and was promptly dispatched to the doctors.
Here is how my conversation at the doctors went:
Doctor (quite young and very fit): These are severe bruises.
Me: Mmm, yes Doctor. Very severe indeed. That’s a lovely strong pair of biceps you have, do you-
Doctor: Have you been experiencing any chest pain at all?
Doctor: Fainting or dizzy spells?
Me: No, no dizziness. Only when I look at you! Tee hee! I don’t suppose you would like to accompany me to-
Doctor: Any painful flatulence?
Me: P…p… PAINFUL FLATULENCE?
(Cue me going bright red and deliriously fanning myself with the nearest pamphlet, entitled ‘Understanding Your Haemorrhoids’)
‘Doctor, please!! Flatulence indeed! Ha ha ha! A LADY NEVER TELLS!’
It eventually transpired that my balanced diet of gin and jam roly-poly had let me to develop a severe vitamin deficiency, similar to that of SCURVY.
A condition normally sported by SIXTEENTH CENTURY PIRATES.
‘Now then’ the doctor continued ‘I’m afraid that this is going to mean absolutely no alcohol for a week’.
There was a stunned pause.
‘Oh right!’ I replied ‘So just softer drinks, such as white wine, sangria-‘
‘I said no alcohol’.
‘Oh! You mean more like beers, cider, the occasional sherry-‘
And so on Friday night, instead of dancing in the Ibiza sun and getting so off my tits that I become convinced that I’m a piece of battered fish (true story), I spent it in Wales. With my parents. Drinking a glass of MILK.
MILK! On a Friday!! I haven’t drunk milk since I was about 4 years old! My RDA of calcium comes from Pina Coladas and the occasional Dairylea triangle!
I was quite worried that my body would actually REJECT the milk and I’d start foaming at the mouth, whilst my head did a 360. Like a human cappuccino machine.
Having hidden the gin from me (I have searched the house high and low and have come to the conclusion that they must have BURIED it) my parents then took it upon themselves to throw me an equally fun filled weekend… VILLAGE STYLE!
Such rip-roaring activities included:
1. TAKING OUR DOG TO THE VETS TO GET HIS TICK REMOVED.
(By tick, I mean one of those insects that attach themselves to animals fur. He doesn’t have Tourette’s Syndrome).
2. ATTENDING THE VILLAGE W.I CRAFT AND PRODUCE SHOW.
Oh, this was a hell-bender!!
Please find below the programme for the fiercely battled vegetable competition. The thrilling categories include: A SINGLE ONION and THREE COURGETTES.
Hotly followed by category 6, for the hard-core, all-rounder, ‘fuck the system’ kind of woman: A SELECTION OF 5 VEGETABLES.
This was followed by the annual ‘Swede Rolling Competition’- the terrifying sight of 20 farmers hurling 4 stone swede’s down a hill then furiously chasing after them.
(I originally misread this in the programme as SUEDE rolling and completely lost my shit- ‘Oh we’re all going to ROLL SOME MATERIAL ARE WE?!!! OH JOY UNBOUNDED!!!! Let me just get my trusty rolling pin out my bag and JOIN IN THE RUDDY FUN!!!’).
3. A 7AM CAR BOOT SALE
This was a rather terrifying experience.
I had cleaned out my room and agreed to part with several items of clothing and a few members of my beloved cuddly toy collection.
(Even as an adult, I still have a weird fetish for cuddly toys. I will often walk past a selection of stuffed animals and develop this sort of nervous hysteria, like sweating palms and heart palpitations, until before I know it I’m stood at the counter buying 3 teddy bears and a life-size toy sheep).
I had originally laughed when my mother warned me to ‘have your wits about you’ but, dear God, nothing could have prepared me for what ensued.
People started circling the car and staring in through the windows BEFORE WE HAD EVEN PARKED.
At one point a man RAN OFF WITH OUR SCREWDRIVER, claiming casually ‘Oh sorry love, I thought it was going free!’.
However, the most traumatic moment came when I eventually parted with my beloved cuddly toy flamingo, Larry.
I finally agreed to sell it to a friendly looking woman, whom I imagined treasuring him and lovingly cradling him to her breast each night.
I tearfully handed Larry over.
‘Take good care of him’ I smiled at the woman, wiping my eyes. ‘He bought me many years of joy and happiness’.
‘Thanks, love’ she replied, grabbing him ‘IT’S FOR THE DOG TO CHEW’.