And I'm feeeeeelin' goooood... da-da, da-da, da-da.
Fourteen years old with my mates on a school watersports holiday in Spain. Two things I should have considered pre-trip:
1 - I can't stand water, and
2 - I can't stand sport.
Medal for me. I can just recall the three of us, munted on something a bit pernod-y (after an hour of trying to pry out the segmented pouring thing in the bottle neck - "what the hell's that? Right, get me a strong, pointy thing"), belting out "Fish in the sea... you know how I feel... etc." In all likelihood the indigenous marine life was about as likely to empathise with us as the 30-odd other school kids in their gossamer thin tents at 4 in the morning. Oh, and the teachers. I may never find out who booed my Bjork impression, bloody cowards.

This in turn issues forth a recollection of the following day: my tent-mates have buggered off to breakfast (it's 7.00 in the morning; Colditz, we renamed the camp)and I am lying supine on my springy bed thing, attempting to tidy up my bikini line with a pair of nail scissors.

You know there's always that one thing you forget when you go on holiday? Sun cream: check; swimming cossie: check; dignity: bugger.

Sorry. That was too much.
(oblong, Wed 30 Mar 2005, 18:57, Reply)