Fiji, Darlings.

The only thing to do when you're surrounded by negativity is to drop everything and go somewhere tropical, ideally on someone else's dime. 

I could post a million photos -- photos of how I interacted condescendingly but lovingly with the locals, how imperiously and without thought we donned sacred ceremonial headdresses for an amusing drunken romp on the beach, photos of Fi's truly unfortunate-looking boyfriend with the male-pattern baldness and the paunch but the magnificent bank account.

Instead, I'll leave you with minimalism.  This is really all you need to know, and all I'm really anxious to show you anyway.  Tell me how gorgeous it is. 

Back home this week, more's the pity.  Tarquin's going to dump Fiona because she won't dress up "like a native woman" or something, so I'm sure there will be lots of drunken evenings to clean up and lots of scary men to shoo out the door. 

Ta!
J.
 

Tales From the Trenches

Oh, darlings, I've missed you.  You have no idea.  Life is so terribly hard when people throw themselves and free things at you.  It's so difficult being this discerning.  But I do try. 


This is my demure face.

 Recently, you may have heard through the gossip mill that I've been to Cornwall.  I do love Cornwall.  Where else can you frolic like children on a beach in your £400 wellies, and two hours later show off your impeccable figure in a string bikini?  That is, as long as you're willing to accept the outrageous a la carte prices for such things. 

Look, truly, I am simply fabulous.  Do not get snippy with me simply because your hair is decidedly less-than, or because you cannot afford the best Brazilian cocaine, or because you have an actual drudgey job as opposed to something delightfully nebulous like 'web consultant.'  I cannot help it if generally speaking I just have things fall into my lap like glorious, perfectly-groomed dogs.

What I do find utterly unspeakable is when I'm invited to a hotel that looks delicious and find the accommodations -- well, rather like the equivalent of a shoddy blowout.  This is not to say that the proletariat might not find the place squeakingly upmarket; I'm only saying there are standards, cupcake, and if you live your life by a different set, it is hardly my problem. 

I do implore you, dear readers, to take opinions from the internet as -- well, opinions from the internet.  Should you suddenly require me to have things like journalistic objectivity, I should think this would become the most stodgy, dreary page on the planet.  Much like I presume that Liberty person's site must be.

When I write about somewhere I've been, it's me writing about somewhere I've been, you silly bourgeois sods.  And while I quite naturally assume my readers are universally staying at filthy little Travelodges the world over, you must understand that when I vacation, it is with the assumption that I will be informed of any additional charges prior to their incurrance.



Oh, dear God.  This Travelodge is like something out of a prison movie.  You poor sodding bastards.

 (And also the assumption that the night's catch won't cause me to spend the evening vomiting up everything I've ever eaten.  I did manage to lose a kilo, however, and am rather surprised I wasn't charged for the spoiled seafood as a spa service.)

In short, if you'd like to stay in Cornwall and lose some pesky weight, this may be right in your wheelhouse. 

If you'd like me to be more objective, or suddenly to begin revealing all my secrets, well, then, you haven't been reading carefully enough.  You don't get to know these things, you whiny little meat pasties.

Ta,
Jonquil.