Skip to main content


We are on holiday and I am encased in a cloud of lethargy. The sun is hot and the humidity high. My brain is in shutdown mode. I have nothing to do. I don't have to be anywhere. If it wasn't for the presence of the kids I would probably sleep for the entirety of our two week break. I am poised somewhere between feeling acute discomfort for being so stunningly non-productive and the blissful wallow of the gloriously lazy.

We are staying with my in-laws at their house in Geneva and I think I am in Heaven. I have had a lie-in every day. Dinner magically appears, followed by hours of wine. I have an afternoon nap every day (strangely, my usual seven hours of broken sleep is no longer enough) and life has become as easy as a beautiful dream.

Firstborn and the Small(er) One's Cousin J is with us, as her mother has just produced number four and understandably, welcomed the chance to offload at least one of her litter. Cousin J and Firstborn are as thick as thieves, self-proclaimed princesses, spending most of their time racing around, shedding clothes and screaming, stealing ice-blocks from the freezer - the Small(er) One desperately trying to keep up, always at least four steps behind them. It breaks my heart, the Small(er) One, trying to run with the big girls; the faster her fat little legs work to keep pace, the faster they run in order to get away - usually with a taunt thrown over their dainty shoulders. The Small(er) One, finally rejected once too often, then retreats to the safety of Mummy; she sits on me and pats me, then settles into the crook of my arm to watch the older girls with saucer eyes.

Must go. I have a hot date with (yet) a(nother) cold glass of wine... More from the holiday frontline soon.


Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…


Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …