Putz in boots

I tried some boots on in Zara at the weekend. God knows why, they weren't particularly nice - maybe I was bored.

Anyway, you know how they display shoes there, all in pairs just like an overpriced Brantano. So there's no need to ask for the right size, you just whip your own shoes off and try theirs on.

I pulled the boot on (it was quite a struggle, but then I am blessed with a large calf). Boot on, I pulled the zip up. As the zip went up, it started to open at the bottom - until the zip was closed at the top, but open all of the rest of the way down....in other words, I was stuck.

So there I am. Stuck in a boot that I don't like, with no idea of how to get it off. Disaster.

So I tugged and pulled and generally went quite red in the face. I twisted and turned and it was going nowhere.

In the end, I had to go and shamefacedly ask the assistant - in French - to cut me out of the bloody shoe. It took a while to find scissors, which were no good. Then the security guard went to get a knife from his locker (the fact that he has a knife in his locker didn't seem to bother/surprise his co-workers).

Anyway, the knife did the trick, and with much embarrassment from me, and applause from the gathered crowd, I was set free.

Yet another shop that I can never go back to.

Dutch Courage

Lord, do I know how to put myself under pressure.

Take this new Dutch guy, DC.

DC and me, it's not serious. At least I don't think that he thinks it is. But I'm having to stop myself thinking of it in a serious way.

Is it because I really like him? Maybe it is. But I think it's also because I've set myself this stupid goal of falling in love and settling down.

Anyway, I flew from Geneva to the UK last week and had to change planes at Schiphol. I had a couple of hours between flights, and he came to meet me at the airport. He just texted me to say he was at the airport, having quizzed me on my travel plans earlier in the day.

He lives a long way from Schiphol.

Maybe I'm underestimating him.

Family photo's

My cousin, it turns out, is a glamour model. And not for anything so tame as the Sun or the Sport. Apparently she’s fairly ‘top-of-the-shelf’.

She’s not actually my cousin, but the daughter of my cousin – so what does that make her? My cousin’s daughter? Surely there’s a better definition than that. Anyway, I digress. She’s a 'glamour' model. I’m mildly stunned to find this out. But the way I found out was even more stunning.

At my brother’s house last night, my Aunt turned up with some family photo’s, including some professional shots of her granddaughter (my cousin’s daughter). They started pretty tame, but a bit odd – cricket jumper pulled down off one shoulder, coyly glancing at the camera, a bit of lip biting, shoulders back, you know the stuff.

We work our way through several similar shots, and then, there she is, tits out for all the world to see. I choked on my drink.

Now, anyone who has read the majority of my posts will know that I’m no shining beacon of morality. It's not that i dissapprove, it's just that it wasn’t what I expected.

Equally unexpected was her grandmother’s comment on the photograph, spoken in her deep Gloucestershire drawl….

“Hasn’t she got a lovely pair of titties?”

It doesn’t happen often, but I felt truly unqualified to comment.

I heart Holland

I went to a party in Holland last week, a party organised by some Dutch colleagues.

It was great - good food, plenty to drink, good conversation. Even if I was the only non-Dutch person there and everyone had to make an effort to speak to each other in English for my benefit.

Just before dinner is served, this guy turns up. He's someone who works for an agency that I use in Holland and I've met him before, and I liked him then, and I just pray that when we all sit down for dinner that he sits next to me.

He does.

He sits next to me and we get on famously, just like we did the first time. He's pretty gorgeous and has this way of leaning in really close when he's talking - ladies and gentlemen, I do declare I was giddy.

Just to ruin my fun, the host then declares that after the first course everyone must move seats (it was one of those kind of soirees...). So, be still my beating heart, I have to get up and leave him behind. I sit down on the opposite side of the room and as the dust settles and everyone is back in a seat I turn to my left, and he has followed me - he's installed himself next to me with a cheeky smile.

'Where did you think I was going to move to?' he said, leaning in close and smiling.

Reader, I thought my heart was going to stop.

le marchand de tapis

New Year's Eve can be ugly.

I was in the UK with family for Christmas and so staying on for new year meant either a) going to bed early and ignoring it; b) going to an awful family party where everyone wants to leave at 10.30, but feels compelled to stay and kiss cousins at midnight; c) going to a pub where, having paid through the nose to get in, you just want to leave straight away.

This is why as the clock struck midnight, I was to be found (with Best Friend) in a strange little bar by the harbour in Essaouira, Morocco - dancing with a fairly raggedy bunch of locals and the obligatory pair of bewildered Frenchies.

Quite the night, and it lasted well into the early hours, with me and Best Friend having reached the bottom quarter of the third bottle of Bacardi (it was all they had)... I'm sure you can imagine the scene. Naturally, I remembered very little of it the next morning.

The next day, we headed off for a walk along the city walls, ostensibly to get a bit of sea air into our lungs and to wake up, but really just to get away from the awfulness of the morning-after bedroom. Passing through the medina, it seemed that most of the merchants were taking it easy and not bothering us poor fool tourists. Except for one. A lop-sided six footer dressed up as a Touareg tribesman.

"You want to see my carpets? Where you from?" He said.

Then he did a double take.

"Hey meester dancer, how are your head today?".

Oh lord. Oh no.

"We dance together big time last night. You very good mover..."

As you'd expect, I showed him what a good mover I was by moving away from the carpets, quickly. When we turned the corner, we ran, choking back the howls of laughter as we went.

I mean really. Moroccan carpet sellers. I used to have standards.

where have I been all your life?

Ok. I'm sorry. It's just that it's been a bit on the crazy side here. If I can just say that since my last entry I've been to ten airports in six countries, crossed the channel on an awful ferry, ridden a camel into the sand dunes of Morocco, been hated in Belgium but loved in Holland and now, finally, at last I get to sit in front of my own computer, in my own house and relax. Oh, and I sold my house in the UK too....

So, it's been kinda busy, kinda crazy, but I'm back on form and will be writing up some of the last few weeks over the weekend.

To all of those who missed me, god bless you all, thanks for keeping the faith (how very 1980's).

TBNIL x