We lost another day today… we should have known better, but no, not us wise old birds. Our mothers used to make sure that we were adequately protected from the sun when we were kids, but now, in the full bloom of middle age, here we are… cerise… or crimson… or whatever the fluorescent equivalent of fire engine red is called. It’s certainly more angry than pink and it bloody hurts like hell.
Having booked to have a two-therapist ‘Chavana Massage’ yesterday in the glow of rude health, we sheepishly crawled back to the Chavana Spa this morning and apologized to the lovely Chinese lady with whom we had made the booking. We explained that, given our radiant agony, a two-therapist massage would probably feel similar to having knitting needles poked in our eyes. To emphasise the point I dropped a demure off the shoulder reveal. Bless her… apart from covering her mouth with her hand and taking two steps back, she seemed to be sympathetic.
A point to note is that the Ayurveda Indian health place with all that weird shit that I was quite looking forward to has been replaced with the Chavana Chinese health place. I guess they get more Chinese visitors than Indian visitors. But as we’re all human beings I cannot understand how one person’s health regime should be any more, or less, beneficial than another’s. I have drunk beer around the globe and I can honestly say that the effect is consistent. On the other hand, I suppose that the consequences have been radically different.
In an attempt to dull the stinging pain, and disappointed that we had cocked up our two-therapist massage opportunity, we fell back upon our magic wristbands. They have more magical powers than even I imagined and here I am in the late evening air, downloading video files and image files; listening to music and typing this nonsense.
The second tragedy of the day is that the video camera’s lens shutter has stopped functioning and half-closes at a jaunty angle. A tug with Sims’ eyebrow tweezers didn’t do the trick. It has probably got sand in it… bugger.
We took a walk along the jetty this morning and watched loads of fabulously coloured fish doing what fish do. This place kicks Oasis Tropical Fish Shop in Salford into touch. These boys are heeeeeowge! Well, perhaps not to someone who wears breathing tanks and wrist computers and stuff… but they are impressive to me. We saw a turtle… or a mobile rock… or a stonefish… or something that looked like a stone and moved. Tomorrow we have decided to go snorkeling to try to get up close and personal. That should be a laugh.
For lunch we had fish and chips. Chung’s Chinky Chippy on Oldfield Road would put them to shame in a television cook-off. You’d think that, being a nation of people floating on little bits of sand surrounded by sea, they’d have the art of cooking fish down to a fine art. Apparently not. The only fish they seem to eat is Tuna. And deep fried Tuna is like chewing on deep fried tyre rubber. Thank God we didn’t come here for the food!
We had an amusing incident tonight when a group of five brick-shithouse Ruskies with their five corpulent wives and thrice as many kids turned up at the bar for the “Spanish Evening” which, apparently happens tomorrow night. Through the obvious anger, the vitriolic shouting and the children running about like their arses were on fire, the poor people who had paid $214 for a “Romantic Lobster Dinner” sat quietly staring at their candlelit romantic lobsters. It was made all the funnier because the Sri Lankan and Maldivian staff obviously didn’t speak Ruskie and the Ruskies didn’t speak anything but Ruskie. There was a lot of pointing at the scabby bit of laminated paper that says what happens where and when. In the end the Ruskies left in disgust. The lobsters held hands, kissed gently and then got eaten.
And so, on that high note, I shall drink the last beer in the non-all-inclusive and damn expensive minibar and join my goodly woman who is asleep and glowing like one of those kids who used to advertise a particular brand of breakfast cereal.
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