My Blog she suffered a terrible accident...

I don’t know if anyone noticed but my blog suffered a terrible accident – I went on holiday to South Africa for 2 months and was too busy getting on with my life to document it. But you will be pleased to know that my sybaritic and opulent lifestyle has ground to a freezing halt and I am back in Blighty (sigh).

My African holiday involved large quantities of sunshine, numerous glasses of alcohol, wonderful friends and my rather amusing family. One of the main highlights of said holiday was my niece ‘Queenie’ who at 15 months old has all the makings of a stand up comedian. I particularly enjoyed the way she admonished the plug points in her room with a stern look, a hearty finger waggle and the words, “No! No! No! Don Tush! Naughty!”

Queenie also does a fantastic impersonation of the Hadeeda Ibis (loud South African bird who according to Zulu folk lore is afraid of heights causing it to scream out in a ‘Ha-ha-Haaah’ fashion every time it takes flight).

Queenie’s ‘Ha-ha-haah’ impersonations were generally followed by her clapping two pudgey hands together and shouting, “Go, Go! Naughty Birdie!” I was completely entranced with the little tyke and reciprocally she thinks that I am the dog’s bollocks - indeed there is nothing quite so morale building as the adulation of ankle-biters.

In other holiday news my dear friend Klong tied in the knot in a rather lovely al fresco wedding. As chief bridesmaid I had my hair and make-up professionally tweaked, the transformation was so alarming that the Husband did not recognise me with my Californian wave hair and attempted to bat me away when I swooped in for a kiss. At least it is good to know that he will resist the advances of beautiful unidentifiable women. The wedding ceremony went off without a hitch, but alas the groom got what I shall indelicately call a case of the ‘shits’ after the first dance and had to retire to the fortress of solitude for the remainder of the night. Never ones to let a good wedding go to waste (not to mention a fully stocked bar – those cane and crème sodas weren’t going to drink themselves) the Husband and I helped the Bride to keep drinking and dancing till 3am, at which point we were the last three standing and the Bride could no longer understand the Husband’s Scots accent. As my father says of the Scots, “I like them but I can never work out if they are talking to me or swearing at me.”

And finally we voyaged to Mozambique where we enjoyed some R and R, which in traditional Mozambican style is an alcoholic beverage of 50% Tipto Tinto Rum and 50% Raspberry juice. R and R’s are best consumed in the numerous shabeens or baracas i.e. make shift shacks posing as bars that are to be found alongside most public thoroughfares. The locals in the baracas were most welcoming indeed after hearing that the Husband was Scottish the music was hastily changed from local Portuguese tunes to Rod Stewart’s greatest hits, presumably to make him feel more at home in the heat of the coconut shack.

My digitally challenged husband caused some confusion at the Mozambican border control where an overly officious immigration officer attempted to take his fingerprints. Instead of admitting defeat when he noticed that the husband is missing the top half of three fingers, the official spent a good 5 minutes studying the Husband’s hand as though the missing digits would magically unfold, when they did not he proceeded to finger print the Husband’s stumps for good measure.

Unfortunately all the African amusement has come to an end after bathing in 29’C tropical seas touching down in Edinburgh to a ground temperature of -6’C was more than a little alarming. When my hand was freezing to the balustrade as I disembarked the plane I thought, ‘there’s been a terrible mistake.'

But perhaps a little Africa detox is just what the doctor ordered, especially after Queenie's nanny Sara eyeballed me in my swimsuit one day:

Sara: Hmm. [Staring at my post Christmas/Holiday stewed body with caliper eyes.]

Me: What? [Said with sense of impending doom.]

Sara: Are you gaining?

Me: Gaining what? [Fear in my voice]

Sara: Are you gaining...[dramatic pause pregnant with possibility]...weight?

Me: [Horrified] I certainly hope not.

Sara: Yes, you look like you are gaining. [Gleeful smile, like she's just told me I won the lottery]

Worryingly this is not the first time an African lady has told me I am "coming nice and fat."

Aikona.