Instead spending time in the Welsh/English countryside, covered up, and cold, listening to authors talk about books I know I'll never quite get around to reading, knowing that if I ever do get a chance to speak to one of them, the only question that'd come out of my dry clammy mouth wouldn't be "so how difficult do you find it, mixing the poetic view of the world with the painful subject matter of your latest Booker prize winning novel" but would go something along the lines of: "ugh.. umm... do you know where the toilets are?". Instead of ALL of this, I have to spend it on tropical carribean island of Saint Martin (or Sint Maarten if you're Dutch), where it's going to be 30 odd degrees everyday, and me, looking terrible in a swimsuit:
And whilst this all sounds idealic, what I can never understand is why is it every time I go away for a summer/tropical island holiday, does my body decide is the EXACT time to store everything I eat into the ever expanding mass that is becoming my rotund belly? Why? So instead of enjoying myself in the on the beach or besides the pool, I spend the entire time trying to run away from two sets of people:
- one set who think I'm a beached whale, and thus try to throw buckets of water over me to keep my skin from drying out, whilst simultaneously trying to coax me back into the open sea, to swim with the rest of my whale family.
- second set of whale hunters, trying to spear and haul me over their trawler to get at my rich, rich blubber.