Honey, I just don't have the clothes
Obscure Dylan reference there for anyone who is so inclined.
I know I haven't been about for a bit, and I wish I could say it was because I was Mrs. Busy-Knickers, but it's not. Fact is I am a lazy bastard.
I have been going back and forth from my home in St Andrews to the Edinburgh Fringe and I promise to tell you all about that at some point, including insider info from people I know who were performing a play. Lemme just say it is an incestuous little world, but I think they are all coming out alive!
Anyways, for the first time since I started writing this blog I am actually going somewhere (not Edinburgh, that doesn't count). Where are you going? I hear you ask. I answer with a little smirk and a casual wave of the hand...
Yeah, yeah my folks live there. Yeah, little house on the beach, well not little really, no big deal. Yeah, they have their own bit of beach, whatever. Why are you going green?
Sorry, my friends tend to try to physically hurt me whenever I announce I am going to Mauritius and it tends to bring out the worst in me. Tee hee.
But as usual I have the problem of what to wear. That is the one minor difficulty with living in Scotland but going on holiday to such a hot country all the time. All my clothes are for the one climate and not the other. I can hear you all sighing and going 'Wow, this woman has issues', but if you, like me, were a woman with a strong sense of her own personal style and and a highly tuned ability to recognise when one's bat-wing arms and tree-stump legs should not be on show to the general public, you too would worry about what the HELL to wear in Mauritius. Incidentally, don't imagine for a moment that I am saying this out of false modesty, or vanity, or self-obsession. It's a self-preservation thing.
So what do I do? Well first, I turned to the British woman's GBF Gok Wan for his advice on what to wear on the beach as a 'real woman'. Massive letdown. If I say the words gold bikini and sculpting underwear you will get what I mean. Secondly I had a sort-through. Now, I don't have that many clothes (at least, not as many as some women) on account of we moved around a lot when I was younger and so my collection hasn't mounted up. This is good for me because it means I don't have to be tidy, but bad because I have to wear the same crap over and over again. And have to try and make autumn UK clothes wearable in Mauritius. I drew a blank. Apart from three swimming costumes and one t-shirt all my clothes are either made of wool or denim, or are too long. Third, I pulled my laptop towards me and before I could stop myself had typed 'NEXT' into google and was staring longingly at beautiful floating dresses and adorable pairs of shorts worn by gorgeous models having the time of their lives on a sunkissed beach. I glanced at the prices, sighed, and pushed the computer away.
And so what have I decided to do? Easy really, I just won't take any clothes. I'll take the three swimming costumes and I'll borrow kangas from my family, then I will park my arse on a sunbed with a pile of books beside me and refuse to move for two weeks protesting that 'I've got nothing to wear!'