Monday, 5 March 2012

"No Rum .... No Fun"

Or so I was told by the crew member who doubled-up as barman on our catamaran trip.   I discovered that it's no use asking for a  non-alcoholic drink - the Bajan's don't have a way of removing the rum from a fruit punch!   Anyway, I'm sure a strawberry daiquiri is purely fruit, ahem...

Another thing I learnt during our week away in Barbados was how you really tell the sheep from the goats.   A lot of animals on that island are masquerading as goats, but turns out they are black-bellied sheep, which don't need shearing.   This information was one of the gems imparted by Hettie, our bus driver on the journey to Bridgetown to meet the catamaran.   Incidentally - what you need to know is that goats' tails stick up and sheep's tails hang down.   Who knew?  

Hettie could point out where Sir Cliff's mansion was, where Cilla had her condo, how to tell a 'reggae' bus from a local authority bus, and why every driver toots his horn all the time.  Apparently you must toot when about to overtake, during overtaking, if someone looks as if they might step into the road, if someone has already stepped into the road, if you see someone you know in the distance, or driving an on-coming vehicle, well, just about for anything really.   Somehow the tooting always seems really good-natured though, not the road-rage blast on the horn we're used to in UK.  Hettie generously loaned her bus microphone to the lovely Emma who led us all in rum-fuelled community singing on the way home.   Goodness knows what possessed me to launch into 'Donald Where's yer Troosers' .....

So, snorkelling.     The kit for this was freely available at our hotel, and, having done a stint of snorkelling about half a century ago, I felt fully qualified to give it another bash.   But, oh, you've never seen such a carry-on, me trying to get my flippers on in some quite strongly-crashing waves without losing my mask and snorkel.   Inevitable outcome was that I was flung onto the beach from the shallows, dragged back out to sea in the undertow and my right knee ligaments, which are prone to such, locked out and I could neither straighten my leg nor stand on it.   While I was floundering in the surf trying to formulate a workable three-point plan for not drowning, a big wave came and knocked my knee back into place.   I sheepishly (or was it 'goatishly', no definitely 'sheepishly', as I had my tail between my legs) returned my equipment to the beach store.   Isn't it amazing how a well-honed skill can desert you in the space of only 50 years?   

I was reminded, too, that gentle flattery can also make your knees a little weak, leading to another humbling tumble.   One of our wedding party was a handsome young man from Portugal, who, with a  perplexing generosity of spirit (rum, probably) whispered that he thought I was most elegant and regal and, indeed, beautiful.   Now, while this did make me uncomfortably self-conscious for a couple of days, I gratefully relinquished any pretentions when I was told that he also adored the Queen Mother and has a portrait of her above his bed.  

me being regal

Sorry about the view up one's regally-flaring nostrils - I was obviously experiencing a little ennui while the official wedding photos were being taken - but at least you're spared the double chins!!

Have a good week!

Chrissie



Monday mosaic

Tuesday (not Monday) Mosaic

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