Tuesday, 21 July 2009
the rash saga, part one...
Well, it's throwing it down with rain and I can't quite believe that only a couple of days ago we were in a sun soaked gorgeous resort. Drizzle and high winds just don't really have the same allure as a sun lounger and a cocktail!
We have had a bit of a turn up for the books though; I've finally found the camera lead that had somehow squirreled itself away under a pile of hair clips and half used lip glosses in a bedside drawer at my house for the last couple of months. This means that this post is a rather eclectic combination of photos and video from our recent trips, including boarding, Edinburgh, some more of my bro's wedding and of course our recent foray onto Portuguese shores.
I'm currently on Tom's sofa bemoaning the fact that I am a one woman medical nightmare. I should really just loan myself out to trainee doctors in order that they can be assessed against the whole gamut of random and inexplicable bodily malfunctions that seem to characterise my life.
I did, of course, end up seeing the doctor in Portugal. Now, I must point out here that I am the world's worst patient. I am reluctant to seek advice in the first place, deny that there's anything wrong and then turn into Miss Shoutycrackers-grumpyknickers when things get so bad that I can't bear them any longer. This week's unusual ailment was a rash. Now I know that most people get the odd bite or bit of prickly heat on holiday but how many people wake up and find that their entire stomach, their thighs, shoulders, wrists (how odd is that? - wrists!) one side of their face and the tops of their feet are covered in a huge raised white rash with red dots in that is so itchy and lumpy that it repulses your boyfriend? In Tom's own words... "You've done a proper job on that haven't you darling!"
I stuck it for two days before admitting that looking like I'd been smeared from head to foot in a rather angry portion of porridge was probably not the best so we ventured to see the hotel doctor. It was not a cheap decision either; it cost 140 Euros to be told that I was allergic to something but he didn't know what. Thanks a lot I thought; I'd pretty much come to that conclusion anyway. In all honesty, I blame it on that prawn.
Now, I don't know if I've mentioned before that I absolutely hate fish. I can stomach "baby fish" in that I like fishfingers and fish from the chip shop and scampi but anything even remotely upmarket makes me retch. However, I am determined to wean myself onto fish so always try other people's and sometimes order it for myself in the vain hope that I may find something I like. I'd had a relative degree of success with a monkfish ravioli the night before so really pushed the boat out and ordered a medley of King Prawns the next night. This was a little error in itself as I forgot it would come with heads on so I was literally faced with all the little critters staring at me and wiggling their crooked little legs at me from the plate in some kind of prawn macarena dance where they pointed at me and laughed at the fact there was no way on earth I knew how to eat them. This led to a very embarrassed Tom having to de-shell the beasts whilst I sank a few Chardonnays to cleanse the palate and prepare myself for the fishy onslaught.
I'd thought about absenting myself and going to touch up my lippy whilst Tom finger waltzed with my prawn companions but as I had a slight handbag issue I decided to sit it out. You see, in a moment of packing amnesia, I had completely forgotten to pack a handbag for the holiday. This meant that I had one of three choices. 1. Tom's huge canvas over the shoulder beach bag 2. My cavernous gold DKNY travel bag 3. My make up bag
Of course I went for option three but it still wasn't right as I was in a lovely floaty cerise chiffon dress but with a heavy black Prada make up bag - never a good look! So, I'd hidden the make up bag under the table and was not drawing attention to it in any way in case anyone thought I actually had twinned my dress with the bag and was therefore committing a fashion crime. So, I had to sit and watch Tom de-leg and decapitate my prawns before I ate them. I now know why dieting mags say to eat more fish - it's because it takes so bloomin long to get into the damn things that you've gone off the idea of forcing them down stone cold before you actually manage to make them edible. Anyway, with the help of a couple of Kir Royales and the rest of the bottle of Chardonnay, I managed to get through most of the prawn "medley". - which roughly translated meant "three different but equally difficult ways of eating something wriggly".