Tuesday 13th August

Well, here I am on Mother Hand's little machine after three weeks off from diario writing, during which time so much has happened that I really don't think, what with it bein nearly 9pm, that I'll be able to squeeze it all in tonight. I'm missing Bristol, and in particular one Z-like Bristolian, lots and lots but Portsmouth this summer is glorious - all sunshine and boxes of brilliant flowers along the streets and the Tall Ships race and so on and so forth. Playscheme is going wonderfully well and to my delight I discovered on the first day of training that I had been employed on the autism scheme which, quite apart from being more money, has meant that I have been able to work with the infamous Bradley as well as with quite a few other kids that I didn't work with last year, although not all of these have been welcome.

But I am getting ahead of myself. The real reason I got round to writing this entry today is because I know there are a few people who are just dying to know what sort of holiday Jen and I had last week. Sp, without further ado, may I present -

Jen and Sal's week in stupid f...abulous Ibiza

Sunday After staying up all night to catch the flight at 6am I was not in the best of moods by the time we got on the plane, particularly since it poured with rain in London before we left and some evil driver soaked me with a puddle. Then at Gatwick, Costa Coffee had mysteriously run out of ice and I was thus denied one of their fantastic Iced Mochas, instead making do with their banter aboput substituting cow's milk for breast milk in the Lattes while I endlessly rang home trying to wake Mr Z up before I had to board the plane, a quest I sadly failed in. Oh well. On the plane, Jen and I were about fit to drop and duly reclined our seats, much to the disgust of the evil spawn sitting behind us, who spent the rest of the flight calling us selfish, bugging us to unrecline our seats and kicking us in the back when we ignored them (I put my personal stereo on and prayed for the day a law is passed against children being allowed to leave the country). Was much gratified when they complained to their dad and he said, "Now you know how the people behind you feel" and went to sleep. Right on! Suck it up, evil devil's spawn.

We got off the plane into bright early morning sunshine, and lots of heat, and no reception on my phone (methinks T Mobile are going to be the next victims of my "Incompetent Bastards" campaign although I managed to sort them out in the end via Mr Z). After going through passport control without anybody checking our passports, we collected our baggage and set off with the slowest minibus driver in the world and (possibly) the most hungover tour rep on the island to our hotel, which turned out to be this glorious pink and white building over the road from the beach, about 10 minutes walk away from the centre of San Antonio. We sorted out the tax and the safe key and then went to sleep for a couple of hours; then we ventured out into the late afternoon heat for a bit of inspectigation. We found an internet cafe (which we never returned to) and some trendy looking bars, and located the Radio 1 live broadcast site which we intended to visit later. Then we went back to our apartment and drank close to half a litre of stomach stripping, meths flavoured, ultra cheap vodka, getting steadily more pissed and observing the people gathering on the shore for the Radio 1 pre-Eden party. "We'll go over there in a minute," we kept saying, pouring another quadrupel meths and lemon. Sadly, it was the longest minute ever because by the time we'd got our slap and gladrags on and got down there, everyone had gone! Jen used one of their portaloos though, and it's possible Judge Jules had pissed in the same one earlier that evening, you never know. Still, on we stumbled, accosted regularly by people with free fliers telling us to go and buy club tickets for Manumission at such and such a bar....I thought, look if I wanted to see a live sex show I'd go home and molest Mr Z in front of the bathroom mirror, I don't need to pay 40 euros for it....but was too pissed to be coherent enough to say it then. Managed to look a bit sad when some guy came up with the usual spiel and I said, "Oh yeah yeah we know, get the tickets from *M BAR*...." "ACTUALLY, it's called Bar M," he replied with a sneer. Did I mention that vodka was like meths?

We did make it to aforementioned Bar M where we drank fantastically over priced cocktails and I saw a blast from the past, none other than Bruno, a bouncer from my Portsmouth clubbing days who now works the main drag in San Antonio. I was in shock for the rest of the night, at least until all the vodka dulled even that emotion. We bought a couple of vodka jellies off a friendly girl who told us to go into town because it was cheaper, and duly staggered there, where, much to our delight, we drank almost free for the whole night thanks to the "Get the girls in the clubs" free drinks promotions. The second club we went into was a metallers club and we met some girl from Botlon in the toilets who always goes to Hawthornes, the scene of several Forest GTs, proving that the world is pretty teeny tiny. Further up the street we were dragged in somewhere full of men and I had a pretty good go at the old pole dancing with a big pillar, what I was doing I don't know because at a certain drunken point I suddenly become convinced that I am the most ravishing and sexually attractive female in the entire world, ever, and act accordingly. Jen looked pretty scared by the end of that and I failed to get any drinks bought for us (I think in Ibiza it works the other way and you probably have to sleep with a guy before he'll buy you a beer). So we moseyed one door up and sat at the bar with our meths and orange and listened to the barmaid relate pissed customer stories about men climbing the walls in pursuit of a drink. Then we had a bit of a dance, the music was pretty wicked, and some child who was barely legal attempted to get off with me, so I pointed him in Jen's direction, heh heh heh. He didn't take the hint however, and kept buzzing around me but since I was very drunk and incorporating wild arm movements into my dancing by this point I ended up wahcking him round the head. He staggered backwards and I felt exactly as I do when one of the kids on playscheme hurts themselves - startlingly maternal. Fatally, I rushed over and patted his forehead better whereupon he attempted once again to attach himself, limpet style, to my face and we had to beat a hasty retreat to the next club, which was even worse because we were literally the only girls in there and nobody took any notice of us, which probably meant it was a gay bar.

This continued for several hours, incorporating a strange Brazilian encounter at one end of the main street, Jen visiting the men's loos while I guarded the bead curtain that served as a door, a freaky long haired promoter guy who insisted on dancing next to Jen while we got our drinks, the theft of a pair of shot glasses and the smuggling of two meths and oranges in my bag out of the final bar. After all this we decided to go home, without shoes, along the beach. Jen threw herself over shortly after setting foot on the dunes and ended up with a glassful of sand, and we went to the water's edge to paddle, until we saw a strange object floating in the shallows...
Me: (squint) Wassat?!
Jen: Um (squint) dunno....a jellyfish?
Me: COOL! I WANT IT! (runs over) *boot*
Jen: If that is a jelly fish I don't think it was a good idea to kick it...
Me: I want it! (flails around in the sea)
Jen: For god's sake woman, it's a PLASTIC BAG!
Me: But I want it! *flail*
Jen: LEAVE IT! Stupid fucking plastic bag....

In retrospect, I have a feeling that "stupid fucking" was invented that first night. It was to become our phrase for the entire week, to be applied to more and more things, but because I have no wish to offend more sensibilities than absolutely necessary I shall henceforth refer to it as "sf'ing". Anyway, around this time two blokes from the Wirral showed up to save the day (ie, they tried to get into Jen's knickers and treated me like a irritating wench getting in the way) and I realised it was officially MY BIRTHDAY! They didn't believe me of course. Nor did anybody walking along the beach that night - because, believe me, I told them all. We finally got back to our apartments, running off and leaving the Wirral guys miles from their own hotel and slightly pissed off (especially when I flicked them the Vs, overconfident bastards), and I went to lie on the balcony in an attempt not to throw up while Jen went off to use the phone. At some point I went and washed the sand off my feet and threw up the meths and orange remaining in my stomach, and at this point it all got a bit hazy.

Monday I woke up, upside down on top of my sheets with my thong wedged so far up my arse it was flossing my wisdom teeth. "Why am I still dressed?" I enquired of Jen, who just grunted at me. On closer inspection I also realised I had managed at some point to be sick on my bed, and Jen had kindly turned the sheets around so it was not near my head. Except that it was, because I was asleep upside down, but the thought was there. Boy, did I feel rough. It seems Jen returned to the apartment to find me out for the count on the balcony, and in spite of being drunk herself tried to get me into bed. I yelled at her not to touch me "because of the reefs" but eventually got up and hauled myself onto bed, refusing her assistance with cries of "No touching! No touching!" I can only think that in my drunken state I mistook her for a lech and the failsafe bit of my brain was making sure I didn't do anything regrettable, which is nice to know. Jen pointed out that since I wouldn't even let her help me up, she wasn't going to try and deprive me of my clothes too. Very wise.

I spent the day recovering. My famous "I NEVER get hangovers!" boast really took a beating. I couldn't keep anything down, not even water. I can only think that the meths did not agree with me, or that 24 is to be the age that hangovers start appearing (although they did not rear their ugly head for the rest of the week, thankfully). Thus I spent my 24th birthday lying by the pool and whimpering. Later I was revived to the point where I could face birthday paella at the restaurant next door, which was cooked from scratch, served from a cast iron pan at our table and full of delicious things such as crab legs, mussels, king prawns, mini squid and, we think, rabbit (but since I wasn't SURE it's ok - the bunnies have forgiven me). It was served by a relatively hunky waiter who we found out, much later in the week, was Pepe, the son of Pepe, one of the barmen at our hotel. When I tried to serve myself some more paella he made me sit down and let him do it, informing me that I was on holiday. Then, when I ordered a rather large ice cream dessert, he asked if we wanted two spoons and Jen protested since her eyes aren't too big for my stomach, and he grinned at me and said with a smoulder, "One for me?!" But luckily I'm not the kind of girl to let a man come between me and ice cream, although I couldn't finish it all. Afterwards we went back to the hotel and watched the drag queen cabaret for a while, which involved lots of fantastical dressing up and a rather enormous python - and YES, I do mean a REAL python. We ended up getting quite an early night, promising ourselves lots of sun bathing the next day.

Tuesday We actually made it up and out of bed before midday, so got quite a good portion of dun by the pool throughout the day, resulting in some red shoulders and stomachs. I think Tuesday was the day some other guests at the hotel bought lilos and other inflatable novelties and Jen and I got a lot of mileage out of "Mount the Turtle" comments. But let me tell you, that turtle was not easy to mount! I eventually managed it and there IS pictographic evidence but sadly, since I am sans bikini top and this is a family website (as in, my family occasionally look at it and I don't want them seeing my tits) the evidence might not be posted. But you never know.

After purchasing tickets for the Es Paradis water party that night we went and had a nap, me on my bed, Jen on her glasses, her phone, a postcard, a book, a magazine and a couple of CDs (she was too lazy to clear off her bed). When we got up, we dolled ourselves up in our nicest white outfits - white vest tops, Jen in a white skirt, me in my white sarong, white thongs - ready for the water and then adjourned to the bar where we pumped the English barman, a reprobate named Frankie who is from Hendon, believe it or not (ie, about 5 minutes from where I used to live), for information until he started getting pissy and told us to ask our rep. We won the pub quiz (which was just about as easy as anything - questions like "What is a Great Dane?"), lost at bingo and slagged off all the people brave enough to do karaoke whilst drinking quantities of San Miguel and cheapo free wine from the pub quiz and a big jug of free sangria topped up with vodka that somebody had bought and not drunk (we were popular with the barmen, especially later in the week, but all in good time).

Well oiled, we tottered off to the water party, meeting some nasty Scummers on the way which prompted me to sing snatches of Pompey football chants and, for some reason, Bristol Rovers chants most of the way. Some dodgy Frenchman came onto Jen and said it was destiny that they should be together because they were both 24....?!! About a dozen street sellers attempted to sell us pills, as well, but we managed to get into Es Paradis without succumbing, bought a coke and a water for the fantastical price of six quid, and settled in to wait for the water party. It was a lovely looking club, with some lovely looking people in (like works of art though, I think - some of them are nice to look at but you definitely wouldn't want them in your own living room). They played a nice mix of Shakedown's "At Night" which I was overjoyed to hear since it was about the only song all night I recognised. A trio of youngsters came up and started hitting on us, and looked suitably horrified when Jen told them we were 24 - it turned out they were all 18. But before they left us to our pension books, one of them managed to force Jen to grab his arse while I caught the moment on film for posterity - or should that be posterior-y? Then he tried to get me to dance and I told him I was married, to which he responded, "It's IBIZA! WHAT ARE YOU HERE FOR?! TO DANCE! SO DANCE!!!" and then started hero-worshipping me when I complied. That was quite pleasant, being hero-worshipped is something nice that doesn't happen often. Then they disappeared, and I went off to stake out the podium but was sadly sobering up too fast to make an impression on it, so I just wandered ro9und a bit until some dodgy bloke in dark glasses attempted to get me to dance with him. "Dance slow!" he shouted at me, attempting to grab me by the waist. "It's NOT a SLOW SONG!" I yelled back, wriggling away. Idiot boy. I've done the dancing slow to fast songs and it's not something I'd like to go back to.

We spent some time after that reclining on pillows around the sunken dance floor, Jen looking bored and me trying to look cool and bored at the same time, waiting for the water to come on. We waited. And waited. And waited. Around 4am Jen turned to me and yelled, "I just want a strepsil and my sheet!" and I started to fgeel a bit past it. Then an hour later she said, "Is it me, or does all this music sound the same?" and I *knew* we were too old to be there. She was right, it was all pretty heavy boom-boom-boom music. Sf'ing boom-boom-boom music. We went and got ripped off for another soft drink and watched a couple getting off at the bar with some interest - they literally were not moving - just faces glued at the lips, not even moving their hands around. They stayed like that for about five minutes - I started to wonder if they were mysterious aliens sharing air that way, like people underwater. They too looked all of 16. We deserted them when they started to get sickening and went and sat back by the dancefloor to whinge about dancers bumping into us and wait for the water. The music was so loud you could feel it in your chest, and FINALLY at 5.45am they turned the water on. It spouted across the floor in great jets and I made a point of standing in one, although the water was salt, and when the dance floor began to fill up the water was a muddy brown and filled with fag ends, yuck yuck yuck, and I had no intention of going in it. We did, however, get the barmaid to take our picture, before we stumbled home, wet, cold, bedraggled and tired.

Pepe the barman was still outside the bar when we got back, but we went straight to bed. Jen displayed a somewhat ambivalent attitude towards her bedding. The conversation ran something like..."I love my sheet. My sheet loves me. Except now I'm too f'ing hot! STUPID F'ING SHEET! Oh no, it's the blue thing...STUPID F'ING BLUE THING! Now the fridge is too noisy...STUPID F'ING FRIDGE! And what's that outside...god it's so loud....STUPID F'ING GRASSHOPPER!" It kept me in stitches for the best part of an hour, since it was too hot to sleep and I hadn't put my sheet in the freezer before we went out, as I had intended. After Richard replied to Jen's text message in a very descriptive fashion ("Awwww", it said) and Zeni managed to go one better by saying, "Awwww....you and Sal get some sleep" (ie, "Piss off, I'm trying to sleep myself) and about an hour of giggling at nothing much but stupid f'ing bedding, we finally managed to get some sleep.

Wednesday

Much more to be said about all this but it's nearly 11 now so it will have to wait until tomorrow!

Thursday 15th August

I had the best of intentions about writing more last night, but since I have come down with Jen's stupid f'ing cold, I have been feeling pretty wretched. Last night, I came home, had some tea, had a shower and lay down on the sofa around 8pm....only to wake up at 4am. So today I've felt magic, after nearly 12 hours of sleep.

But I digress. Where was I? Pedalow Wednesday? Ah yes. That evening, we decided to drink somewhere else because the drag queen cabaret was in full swing again, but found ourselves unable to face the West End. "I fancy just sitting somewhere quietish and having a cocktail," said Jen, so we found ourselves sitting in the Pussycat Bar where they served delicious coktails with no less than a free condom on every straw. Magic! After that we walked along the sea front looking for a parascending place but could only find the ferry to Majorca, so we walked back to the hotel bar and got a relatively early night, since we were both engrossed in our respective books. Cue much giggling about stupid f'ing things again. I got up to turn off the balcony light and on my return kicked my bed so hard it went flying across the floor, so that also made us hysterical - "It's trying to get away! It's sick of me putting sand in it and getting nail varnish on the sheets!" Then Jen was in the middle of saying something and suddenly went "SPIT! YEURGH! THAT WAS AN ANT IN MY MOUTH!" which just made me laugh even harder. I'm almost surprised either of us got any sleep at all, to be honest.

Thursday After whinging on about wanting to get a "pretty lilo" (as much for use as a bed when she returned to London as anything) Jen felt so rotten on Thursday that she spent most of the day in bed. Nothing to do with ant poisoning - just a nasty cold. I spent lots of time by the pool but by this point lots of families with kids had turned up and were being noisy and splashy, and all the littluns kept staring at my tits (and possibly the grown ups but they were more subtle about it). I had to navigate my way past a particularly venomous-looking cockroach on the stairs to the pool; luckily I escaped unscathed. Jen had a bit of a moment later in the day..."I think I just heard a rat," she said with a frown, putting on deoderant. "No, that was the ball in your deoderant squeaking," I replied with a cackle. Ah, such larks.

After eating lots of spaghetti we went to the hotel bar for drinks. We played some pool with plastic cues and no chalk (not very easy but at least the games lasted ages) and entered the pub quiz but were not successful. No wait - I'm wrong. We didn't win it on the Tuesday, we won it on this day, because by the end of the night I had half a pint of cider, half a bottle of beer and a glass of cheapo wine to drink. We didn't even play it on Tuesday....I can't go back and change it now though because I'm still on Mother Hand's machine, so my mistake will be immortalised here forever.

Jen got very drunk (me? let's not mention me...) and started sending slapper texts to Zeni, and I joined in with the winding up for a while until I was a bit too drunk to focus. Gradually everybody started leaving, luckily before they had time for me to do karaoke (I wouldn't have done anyway - they didn't have Copacabana! Shocking) and we, drunk, yet not drunk enough to sleep, continued drinking with the three remaining bar staff - Pepe, Frankie and Juan. Frankie duly left, after making lots of very suggestive jokes and telling us to stand well back - we'd need both hands to handle him (both hands to slap him properly, maybe..) and we then were four; then Jen felt a bit ill and said she was going to get a sandwich but I still had half a pint of cider to drink so I stayed in the bar chatting to Juan and occasionally Pepe, who didn't seem in the best of moods. I didn't think anything of it, since they were both old enough to be my dad, and I thought even less of it when Juan invited me for a drink at the little waterside bar over the road, saying that "all the bar staff" went there after work for a drink.

It sounded innocent enough. We sat for over an hour watching the fish in the shallows and drinking sangria. Nobody else turned up, but my apple soaked brain did not compute this, nor the fact that Vicente, the owner of the beachside bar, was leering at me. I got a bit tired and wanted to leave but didn't want to be rude, so sat there a bit longer than intended. Then Juan offered to walk me back and it became clear that I was not drinking with Juan - I was drinking with none other than Don Juan the Geriatric. He leaned in to kiss me on both cheeks, much as Frankie had done with both Jen and I earlier, which was fine until he suddenly seized me and tried to stick his tongue down my throat. Thankfully he was about a foot shorter than me so I employed a gentle knee and tipped my head way back and managed to escape with a cry of "I've got to give my friend her parrot" (I nicked the parrot out of the sangria).

I was in a state of complete shock - I mean, PLEASE! He was really old, and even if I was single, for crying out loud - A SPANISH BARMAN?! HOW cliche?! I would never. And that's saying something, considering the libertine I used to be. That's all changed anyway...the rest of the holiday I spent keeping men as far away from me as possible. Couldn't go upsetting Mr Z, after all, not when he was trusting enough not to object too vigourously to me going in the first place. Crashed into the room and told Jen, but she was so asleep all I got was an uncomprehending grunt.

Friday Unfortunately Jen was awake enough on Thursday to thoroughly ridicule me over Don Juan the Geriatric. "Don't pull any crusties while I'm gone," she sniggered as she went to the toilet. "I hear you copped off last night Sal!" texted her partner in crime, the evil Zeni. One was not amused. Dragged myself down to the pool for the sunny bits of the day, which were sadly few and far between - only *I* could go on holiday to the Balearics and have it rain almost every day. Managed to get quite a lot of my history text book read so that was the study quota filled. Then this idiot in orange shorts came down and started jumping in and splashing around and swallowing half the pool before spitting it out again so we left before we were totally drenched.

Since we were avoiding Don Juan the Geriatric we went and had another fantastic paella at La Marina Playa, the restaurant next door, and then went and drank in the beachside bar over the road, where happily I only had to put up with Vicente. "I didn't sleep with your mate!" I kept wanting to yell at him, but for all I know he didn't think that anyway. There were lots of little fishies swimming around in the shallows so we went and got some bread and sat on the quay and drank beer and fed the fish. Soon enough we tempted in loads of big, white fish who were capable of swallowing huge crusts all in one go, accompanied by sucking, kissing noises. "I wonder what they are," cooed Jen, leaning over to look at them. "Fish!" I replied, helpfully. "Duh!" said Jen; "Der brain!" said I, and the conversation descended into giggles.

Lots of people came to watch the fish feeding, one with a little dog in tow which, for some reason, pissed Jen off so much that she nearly booted it into the water as extra food for the fish. Then this guy came up and stood in the shallows and started reaching out to the fish and making little noises to tempt them in - evidently he was the elusive Fish Whisperer. I tried to repeat the same trick but they all swam away from me, with one notable exception - a silly fish that, when I tried to catch it, did not swim away but allowed itself to be caught. I was so horrified that I had actually managed to apprehend it that I didn't know what to do, until it started wriggling around in my hand which felt horrible, so I lobbed it. It sailed through the air and back into the water, where it lay so still that Jen started having a go at me for killing it, but it soon swam away when I tried to catch it again. "It's probably scarred for life, poor thing," she berated me. What about me?! It felt horrible! Wriggle wriggle...*shudder*

We didn't drink much beer, only enough to get a nice big San Miguel glass for me to claim as a souvenir. I have one I got in Tenerife which Mr Z insists is now his, so now I have one too. Like I said, we hadn't drunk a LOT, but suddenly Jen stiffened and said, in a low voice, "Is that a lizard on the beach?" Jen likes lizards, especially geckoes. But when I turned around I could see she was in for a disappointment. "No, it's a piece of seaweed," I replied, thus regaining some of my credibility after the whole jelly fish/plastic bag incident. Eventually we went back to the hotel bar which was, by this point, very quiet, and devoid of any Don Juans - just Pepe, the bloke who kept throwing himself in the swimming pool and a couple of middle aged British guys. We played pool for a bit and then chatted to the kid from the swimming pool, who turned out to be a SCUMMER, surprise surprise (he was from Southampton, in case it wasn't obvious). He was more annoying in the flesh than he was in the pool - I've never met anybody with such verbal diarrhea. Worse, he seemed to find it best talking to me and virtually ignored Jen, leaving her ample opportunity to pull faces over his shoulder. The best - or worst - bit was when he said, "I'm a swimmer back home...I mean, not professional or anything but..." and Jen just cracked up, and I was left with a foolish grin on my face, trying not to crack up or meet her eye. Luckily after that he started talking about football which bored all the laughter out of me. He also said it was his third sumemr in Ibiza and gave us top tips for recognising Dave Pearce - "He walks around in the crowd," he said, "a little guy with little round glasses, no body guards or anything....last summer I got VIP tickets and picked all the records for him to play one night, it was cool." Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

After that the two middle aged guys invited us to have a drink with us. They turned out to be stinking rich and bought us both nice big spirits (no point in having cheapo San Miguel when you're drinking with millionaires, after all). One of them turned out to be a very successful book salesman and gave me some tips on how to get published, before moving on to wax lyrical about what gorgeous girls we both were. "You're gorgeous girls," he slurred, waving his beer at us. "When you came down the other night in those see through trousers - WOW! And then when you wore that little white skirt with the thong - well, I don't mind telling you, I got a boner." It's all very well him not minding telling me - what about if I minded hearing? But nevermind, he was harmless enough. Then Pepe came along and invited us over the road for a drink - he very pointedly stressed it was just a drink and nothing more, ho hum I wonder why - at which point we adjourned to our bug-infested apartment. Cue much fun with insects, both imaginary and real. I managed to terrify Jen by yelling, "OH MY GOD THERE'S A HUGE..." at which point she screamed and leapt onto my bed. She got her own back, mind, by flicking her used contact lenses onto my bare legs which nearly gave me a heart attack. Jen started having a mare about everyone fancying me and not her (and what a huge joke that is!) although why the opinions of an aging Spanish waiter and a married book salesman should matter is beyond me, but anyway she got so het up about it she tried to murder her sheet, or at least rip it in half. Much giggling about stupid f'ing things again.

Saturday Our last day, and the weather was miserable, but at least it was an excuse to stay indoors and pack. The sun came out briefly in the afternoon so I made a mad dash for the sun loungers and started rubbing in the factor 5. The scummer showed up shortly after; his first question was, "Where's Jen?" so maybe he was going for the "I fancy you so I'll ignore you" tactic. We chatted for a while but then I took off my bikini top to better rub in the sun tan cream and he got a bit stuttery, didn't know where to look and went and jumped in the pool. Bless.

We did some last minute souvenir shopping, ate some burgers and then got ready to go out. We both dressed to kill in little black dresses - Jen's illegally short, mine see through - and I added some golden glitter for good luck. We pestered the girl in the next door apartment to take our pictures and then moseyed on down to the bar, where the night's pub quiz was in full swing - families with sun burn and elasticated waist shorts everywhere. There was a deafening noise as we strutted (well...skulked might be more accurate) into the bar - I think it was everybody's tongues hitting the floor. The dresses WERE very short, and I don't think it helped that mine was slit to the waist and Jen was in a thong. We got whistles from all the barmen and even Don Juan the Geriatric commented, breaking his silence. We barely paid for a drink all night, which was another good thing. Before we left, we went behind the bar and had our pictures taken with the bar staff. When it got to Jen's turn, Pepe lifted up my leg the better to see the glitter, but then Frankie lifted the other one until I was almost on their shoulders, so presumably the shot on Jen's camera will be of my arse and a glittery thigh if she's lucky. Oh dear.

Goodbyes said, we left the hotel and walked straight into a monsoon. The heel fell off my shoe, too, and some nice, unassuming man in the street fixed it for me. Then we had to run back up the street and take shelter in a restaurant with the African street sellers we had just spurned, much to their delight. They started going on about how they had big black dicks and I might like to sample them, and no amount of telling them about Mr Z did the trick. In the end I told them Jen was my girlfriend, which seemed to work, especially when they accused her of not being equipped enough to deal with me - she turned around and told them she had a great big strap on, which did the trick. Luckily the rain stopped then and we started walking. This was not without its perils, even in bare feet, and I twice found myself sitting in a puddle, the second time as a result of being knocked over by lots of Irish boys, who after standing me up tried to grope me. Needless to say, by the time we reached Eden I was soaking wet and not best pleased. Some New Yorker took our pictures outside the club (he wasn't happy about doing it but oh well) and then we went in, and my mood was instantly lifted. The heel broke off my shoe again about five minutes after arriving, but since everyone was drinking out of plastic glasses and bottles, I danced bare foot all night without any problems.

The only problem with Eden was that it got very hot, so eventually I took off my dress (well, I did have hotpants and a nice bra on so it didn't seem to matter). I got lots of admiring glances but I spurned them all. Then one nasty little man came up to me...
Nasty man: You're fucking fat!
Me: Huh! You're not much better!
Me: (turns back on him, pointedly)
Nasty man: (slaps my arse)
Me: (slaps him in the face, hard)
After this happened, about 10 minutes passed and it happened again, almost the same, except that the second time there was some water on the floor and I fell over as I attempted to sweep away on a wave of righteous indignation. Attempting to cover my tracks, I did not get up straight away (ie, "Oh, I meant to fall over really...honest...") and suddenly about a dozen blokes were bent over trying to help me up and asking me if I was ok. They actually lifted me fully off the floor and set me on my feet, as I mumbled something about "that nasty man pushing me..." whereupon about five of them squared up to him, and it was only Jen shoving them out of the way that ended it, or who knows what would have happened. I put the dress back on soon after that, although honestly there were people there with less clothes on than me. Later on, some man tried to dance with me but I told him I was married and he just faded away in about two seconds. Nice one that, I must remember it.

Eden was fantastic, Dave Pearce just made the whole night, it was as I had imagined clubbing in Ibiza would be like. The only whinge I had was that time passed so quickly - I asked Jen what the time was, imagining it to be about 3am, and it was 5am! Jen got chatted up by a Canadian and we had our picture taken by the club photographer, and then Dave Pearce left (looking nothing like the scummer said) and John Double O Fleming turned up, but it was nearly 6am by then and we had to leave. We got outside to find a virtual hurricane which only worsened as the sun rose - there were boats being blown out of the bay and onto the beach, it was pretty awful. This meant I couldn't skinny dip, but oh well - NEXT holiday...When we got back to the room I was horrified to find my bikini bottoms had blown off the balcony and onto the canopy below, so Jen and I rushed downstairs with a broom to ask for the assistance of Pepe, who was still there. Picture the scene - gale force winds, Jen is in a tiny LBD, jumping up and down on a table and yelling instructions to me, while I am standing in my own LBD with a broom whacking the canvas and Pepe is standing over the road, ostensibly helping but really just having a good old giggle at our expense. Luckily I managed to get them back. My first bikini ever - it's historically very important!

After that we finished off the packing and, with half an hour to go, lay down to rest before the coach came to pick us up. We BOTH fell asleep but luckily I remembered to set an alarm. The coach arrived and we set off for the airport, both knackered and bordering on ratty. As we approached it, Jen pointed out of the window and said, "I'm sure that's a pineapple," to which I replied, "No, it's a TREE!" which I think was the last quip of the holiday, because after that we were both a bit too tired. We both fell asleep in the departure lounge at the airport, but luckily Jen woke up in time. On the plane, we were delighted to find we had seats with an aisle behind us, but soon fed up when we realised that, as a result of this, our seats didn't recline, and we had a family of four next to us and across the aisle, the children of which insisted on being played with and thrown around all the way back to London. Humour was at an all time low. Many loud comments were made about banning children from planes. Honestly, one day I will holiday in adult only locations, if only once. It wouldn't be quite so bad if they weren't indulged so much. Humbug. Stupid f'ing children. Stupid f'ing parents.

There we are. That is a true and faithful account of the doings of Sally the Jelly Fish Slayer and Jenny, Wrestler of Sheets. I ached for four whole days after returning, as a result of all that dancing to Dave Pearce, but it was totally worth it. Now all I'm waiting for is the pictures....

(PS, we all know there has been a gap of longer than two days between this entry and the previous one, in fact it's nearly two weeks, but we all know that I'm being let off due to my incredible busy-ness, don't we? )

Friday 30th August

It's the end of August - where does the time go? I have only written about one week of the month so far! And it was such a good month - in spite of being parted from Mr Z for most of it. Playscheme turned up a few familiar faces, not least of these Roland Gump and Sheila, my senior from last year, who was this year senior for the autism and extra special needs part of the scheme - a step up for her. And for me, it seemed, as I was informed when I turned up for training that I too was working on this scheme so that I could be sent into battle against young Bradley who was in for nearly two weeks of the scheme. Bradley might stir the memories of anybody who read entries about last year's playscheme; I had a pleasant surprise in store though - he's definitely grown up a little bit and calmed down somewhat, which is just as well because even though he is still only 12 he is much too big for me to haul out of the ring physically, should he turn an area into a ring. But he only gave me the finger once, and was generally a joy for the three days I worked with him.

It was fun being on the autism scheme because we got to go out almost every day. The first day we went to Portchester Castle; I let Bradley climb the walls and he got so high that he scared himself and I had to lift him down. That'll learn him. Then he ran into the bit you have to pay for without bothering to pay. Luckily the woman waiting to take the money was very understanding, even when he refused to leave after having a good look round for nearly half an hour. It took two of us to remove him that day; between that and Michelle rolling her wheelchair down a slope and into a brick wall it wasn't the best of starts, but luckily the experience got smoother as time passed. I missed out on Bradley after the first week because he was only in for the first fortnight and I was on holiday for the second week, but I got to work more closely with the 2:1 autism boys from last year, who can be quite scary but also quite sweet. Luckily neither of them had any serious violent outbursts, at least until the last day, when unfortunately Joe thought we were going to make him go on the kiddie train at Royal Victoria Country Park, threw his shoes at Sheila, kicked Lee repeatedly, smacked a total stranger and threw a large rock at Bill. Other than that he was ok, even when we took him to the fair. We didn't make him go on any rides though. He did smack me a few times but then, I touched his t-shirt which is a bit of a cardinal sin. It must be pretty nasty not to be able to communicate your wishes to other people.

The group was a good one, too - nice staff, and we all got on very well. Claire and Steve even hooked up on the last night, which was a bit obvious anyway because they went and got themselves lost at Queen Elizabeth Country Park, with Joe, for the best part of an hour. We were very helpful with the radio messages - suggested following the yellow brick road, going towards the trees &c. &c. - for some reason they weren't impressed. When they were finally found they were even less impressed at being called Hansel and Gretal for the rest of the day. It all got a bit twisted towards the end, it has to be said, when it comes to romantic liasons. It made me feel, at 24, quite old and past it because I wasn't running around all angsty and flirty. Needless to say, one of the other girls (nameless) liked Steve a lot and was a bit gutted when he went off with Claire; thicker and thicker, one of the other lads (nameless 2) liked Nameless a lot and was plotting revenge on Steve for flirting with her. Nameless 2 managed to get very drunk and declare his feelings for Nameless who was having none of it; so Nameless 2 got drunker and got kicked out of a club and Vicky, who had had to put up with Colin humping her leg all evening, was quite at a loss.

Anyway, romantic permutations aside, the group worked very well. There was Sarah, who went to the same school as me and is doing a teaching degree at Warwick; Craig, who is Sheila's youngest son and works at Cliffdale, a special needs primary; Bill, who works at East Shore and coaches the Fareham football team; Amy, who also works at Cliffdale and is getting married next year; Steve, who is doing a sports science degree at Chichester and wants to be a PE teacher; Claire, who works at Beechside, a respite home for special needs children; and finally Vicky, the baby of the scheme at 18, who managed to score fantastic A-Level grades and is coming to none other than Bath Spa to do her English degree. Since I am about to start there, there will probably be further mentions of Vicky in future, so take note. She's quite mad and thought she might hate me when we first met but luckily she doesn't. Yesterday she texted me to tell her about her new flat; she said she hadn't met her flatmates yet but there were three vodka bottles in the bin so she knows she'll be alright. This should be enough of an explanation of why we get along. Then of course there was Sheila who was running the whole shebang, and that was it for our little corner of the scheme. For the first two weeks we also had Mary, who also works at East Shore, but she went off to Cuba in the final week and failed to turn up for the leaving party that Craig organised for her on the Tuesday. Almost everybody else from the autism scheme did though, as well as a couple of others. Last year there weren't any social things apart from the last night and Alice's barbecue (which didn't happen this year) - it was nice to hang out with them, particularly since I know so few people in Portsmouth now.

I remember last year thinking that the autism group were really cliquey because they never spoke to us normal playworkers, but having been there, I understand why - I had no time at all, particularly since I was escorting on the buses. I escorted on Mother Hand's bus for a while until she had a little accident with the wrong type of fuel and put her notice in. One of the times I was her escort though, we picked up a very enthusiastic bunch of children, including Ashley who is prone to pointing to people in the street and shouting, "I KNOW 'IM!" So that day we drove back to the scheme waving and yelling hello at pretty much every single person we passed. That was a lot of fun. Then in the last week I was escorting for Peter, who is the manager at the CP Centre, which runs the scheme. I was pointing people out to Ashley and asking if he knew them, and as we waved and yelled hello to one particular man he said he knew, Peter realised that it was actually somebody *he* knew and pulled over to talk to him. It was very amusing.

Well, maybe you had to be there.

Luckily we had the weather with us for most of the month, so things like the bouncy castle worked very well, and also the trampolines which are new to me but lots of fun. I managed to get a nice base tan before I went on holiday - indeed, I managed to get the first burn of the year out of the way since I was working with a little boy called Henry who wasn't on the autsim scheme (I was leant out for the day) and all he wanted to do was play on the bouncy castle; a day in the sun yeilded burned shoulders, face and knees, thanks to my trick of always sitting cross legged. I didn't really mind; it went down quite quickly, and Henry is just precious - always smiling. After I worked with him, he spent the rest of the playscheme attacking me like a tiger, since we'd played at being big cats all day long. Bless. There wasn't a lot of swimming this year - just a couple of times at East Shore, which is like a very big, 4 feet deep bath. The day the autism scheme went, we absolutely drenched Craig and Steve who were silly enough to stand near the edge of the pool looking like serious life guards. Well, I mean REALLY....just asking for it. Although there was less swimming, there seemed to be MORE Pitt Street which was great because I got to go twice, and I LOVE Pitt Street. The bounciest trampoline ever and lots of things to swing on. I seemed to get pushed in the pits a lot, and at one point Steve buried me in bits of foam and then kicked me back in every time I tried to get out, which was actually a lot funnier than it sounds. Vicky also managed to chuck me in the pits, as did some of the kids. We put Michelle, who is one of our more vicious girls (although she can be very sweet as long as you throw her in the paddling pool and chuck water at her all day) in the deepest pit and left her to her own devices for a while, which met with everybody's approval. Lee did a bit of a monkey act and managed to climb up onto the overhead gallery, which brought out the monkey in the employee we had watching us - he practically ran up the wall to get him back. It was like something out of The Mummy - very impressive.

And...I think that was about it for the playscheme gossip. Apart from the last night of course. As last year, I went mega early and drank cocktails by myself in the cocktails bar with the happy hour, but unlike last year some other people actually showed up so that was nice. This did, however, mean I was pretty wobbly by the time we got to the restaurant. Stephen, a lawyer friend of one of the scheme bosses who drove a bus and playworked two days a week, told me not to buy a drink there because he was getting wine; assuming he meant three bottles between the 25 of us, I did anyway. But no, he meant something like THIRTY bottles between the 25 of us. It just degenerated from there, really. I ate lots of squid but it didn't do much to soak up the alcohol and by the end of the evening my conversation with Vicky, Sarah and Anna had degenerated to the level that Jen, Kez and I usually get to after about half an hour. This peaked when Stephen came over and I said, "Hello Stephen, we're talking about sex, have you got anything to add?" and Sarah, Anna and Vicky all looked shocked (Vicky less so, though). I should probably say, Stephen has a daughter about my age. Oh well. At least I didn't ask him what his favourite position was. Oh wait....doh doh doh....

Still, the embarrassment, which was only slight anyway because I was obviously drunk and was in the company of friends and I've done worse, was short lived because we adjourned to the Goose at the V&A across the road and I waxed lyrical about my wonderful boyfriend to anybody who would listen and possibly even some who wouldn't. We stayed there until closing time and then walked down to the seafront, and Bar Blue, where we danced copiously and left, one by one. Hopefully lots of them qill come back next year, they were a good bunch - all of the playworkers were. A lot of people said they did want to come back but people always say that, so we'll see. I know I will. All the returners this year were so impressed with how different I looked that my confidence was muy boosted, and I could definitely cope with that again next year

Final titbits....I had a proper hair cut done at Toni and Guy, it was £30 but totally worth it, as the stylist blow dried it for about half an hour and it was straight as a yardstick. Needless to say I haven't managed the same trick yet, but I am trying...it's got little flicky layers in it that do something marvellous for my face (ie, it looks thinner), but they do get a bit annoying when they wriggle out of my pony tails. Oh well, can't have it all I supppose.
Father Hand paid us a flying visit the first weekend I spent in Portsmouth, on his way back to Las Vegas from Austria, and took us out to dinner (apart from Sibling who went clubbing in London), which seemed a bit tense at first but ended up being a lot of fun. He's looking well, was very complimentary about my weight loss and loved the UK TV adverts I downloaded for him from Absolutely Andy (he only manages a 9600 connection now, sadly, so he can't really use his net connection for anything).
Towards the end of August, Mother Hand took Sibling and I to the swanky Tiger Tiger for a belated birthday dinner which was also a lot of fun, if a little pricey. Um um, what else...I met up with Caroline who has lost even more weight than me and looks pretty fabby, although she is still pretty sick and this is what is making her thinner. She has some wonderful plans for horsey futures and seems more focussed these days.

And finally, the bestest news...Mother Hand is buying herself a new car which means the Mini is moving to Bristol in just two weeks! Not that I can drive it yet, but Tony has told me to go ahead and book a test for October, so fingers crossed I will be on the road before the end of the year and actually complete a goal for once. Of course, the Mini is up for its MOT in November so it may be shortlived...which may be a relief to some people.