My dream of a luxury Caribbean cruise will remain just that, a dream, unless I come up with a cunning plan. Staring out of my rain soaked office window, my mind is elsewhere. I’m lounging on deck, a Pimms in one hand and my Jamaican Patois phrase book in the other. A gentle breeze caresses my bikini body (in my dreams I have a bikini body). A hot sailor arrives with a cold towel to gently dab away a bead of sweat from my sunkissed forehead…..
I trawl the internet looking for ways and means of earning a few shillings and turn my fantasy into reality. The internet offers a plethora of suggestions, but one catches my eye.
Handbag Rental:- Yes, there are crazy people out there willing to part with cash for a loan of your handbag. Initially I find this an amusing idea. Reminiscing about days of old when I lived at home with my five sisters. Handbags were exchanged without permission or knowledge. You could arrive home to find your polo mints and lip gloss strewn across the bed, handbag nowhere to be seen. Many an argument started with ‘Where the f**k is my bag”. Ahh! Happy days. If I had a penny for every time my handbag was commandeered….
But this idea or renting out your handbag intrigues me. A Burberry clutch will get you 35 euros per week. A Longchamp tote maybe even more. My plan may indeed be cunning. The only drawback is a lack of designer bags in my wardrobe. I might get 50 cent for my old satchel, but that wouldn’t cover the postage.
And there is that fact that my handbag is a health hazard.
However, it’s a universal truth that any domestic Goddess worth her salt must own at least one decent bag. How else can she be differentiated from the peasants. I do have a lovely Orla Kiely shopper that I’m quite attached to. I’m not about to let any old tosser (too miserable to buy their own bag) use and abuse it. I’ll rent out my Primark crossover bag for starters and see how I get on. There can’t be that much competition, I can’t imagine anyone who owns an Alexander McQueen skull box clutch would be that hard pressed that they’d have to rent it out.
If the handbag rental goes well, I could rent out all sorts of things. Shoes..I have a pair of runners that need breaking in. I wouldn’t even charge extra for the muck. Maybe not my good shoes, don’t relish the thought of some slimey old pervert sniffing around my stilettos… Scarves, sunglasses, jewellery, husband. The sky’s the limit.
I consider other ideas..
Personal Assistant to Millionaire:- Dashing about, organising appointments, booking flights. Maybe I could be a kind of skivvy to the stars. I have visions of me collecting George Clooney’s dry cleaning. I’ll make myself indispensable to him. George will be incapable of sneezing without my guidance. In order to get the gig, I’d have to look the part. Mmm…Maybe I’ll rent a little Gucci clutch bag.
Good news – I’m no longer a golf widow. But wait, hold the celebration, golf has only been replaced with football. The nation grinds to a halt as Euro 2016 fever grips the country. Himself is off to Bordeaux to worship at the altar of football. In a couple of days he will set off on a ten day solo road trip across France on his beloved Ducati motorbike (I only recently learned what make it was, previously referred to as ‘a red one’ if asked). Lovingly buffed up and ready for the trip.
Thank God it’s finally arrived. I don’t think I could take much more of this insanity. To say the meticulous planning of this trip was executed with military precision would be an understatement. I sometimes wondered if the house would ever return to normal. I look forward to the joys of coming down to my kitchen each morning and not have spare motorbike parts strewn across the counter tops, not have maps spread out across the table, yellow stickers on the fridge or messages from Airbnb every time I open my iPad. Finally, normal family life may resume.
Last night we had the trial run. The rucksack packed, unpacked, repacked. I tried lifting it, but couldn’t. “What have you got in there – a few gold bars?, a spare engine?”. On inspection, I wasn’t far off. 90% of the bag consisted of tools for the bike, spare parts, bulbs, barely room for a pair of shorts and a couple of green t-shirts. If only I could pack so light. Just as well I’m not tagging along as I’d never manage with less than 15 pairs of shoes.
You finally arrive at your hotel after a long and treacherous journey, travel weary, exhausted. All you want to do is flake out in the sunshine. You’ve been promised tropical bliss. You envisage doing nothing more than sipping Pimms, taking selfies of your feet while idly contemplating George Clooney’s choice of footwear. You gather up your poolside paraphernalia, shades, sun cream, sarong, book and head down to the terrace only to find the sun lounger Gestapo have reserved all the best ones. The only one left is beside a bin and some howling infants. What to do?
I found myself in this very predicament on a recent holiday. I decided that there was nothing for it but to rise to the occasion and beat the Germans at their own game.
I awoke to glorious sunshine pouring in through the slit in the curtains early the next morning (6.50 am). I watched with interest from my balcony as a woman arrived with her towels and proceeded to claim five sun loungers. Not content with that, with military precision she managed to drag a heavy parasol (anchored to a cement base) over to her den, along with a selection of small tables and some ashtrays. Clearly I’d have to up my game to be in contention for a prized sun lounger.
Returning later, I relaxed into my sun lounger between Gunthar and Greta, oblivious to the glowering looks from either side as I flicked through Good Housekeeping.
Is there anything quite as divine as Italian everything..Italian food, Italian scenery, Italian weather.. Italian fashion..Italian wine.
I’m still high on from spending a few days living la dolce vita where I combined all the above. My fabulous nephew and his beautiful bride tied the knot in the little fairytale village of Titignano in the hills just north of Rome. I’d run out of superlatives if I tried to describe this magical setting, so instead let me tell you a tale of two cocktails (or three, or was it four?)
Seated at our tables for the wedding feast (and it was a feast), we noted the menu seemed to have no less than five courses, each course four or five options, all delicious yummy sounding mouth watering treats for the palate, what to choose?. Before the waiter came to take orders, our first course arrived. Bruschetta, like I’ve never tasted before..
Molly informed us that an Old Fashioned was the last word in cocktails. A concoction of whiskey, sugar and bitters. My better half volunteered to sample one, take one for the team. He never drinks cocktails…his mantra ‘thou shalt drink only manly pints of Guinness’ was out the window.
And the food kept coming. Goose, wild boar..each offering more tempting than the last. Thank God I’d decided against wearing Spanx. Plenty of room for expansion..… bring it on. If someone is kind enough to invite you to join in their special day, isn’t it your duty to let your hair down, overindulge, have an amazing time? Never let it be said I’d shirk my duty..
I’m travelling to Berlin next week. I’m taking carry-on luggage only.
Anticipating opulent old colonial chic I purchased a large new suitcase to accommodate my Nile wardrobe. New swimwear, expensive sun creams, day dresses, deck shoes, ‘going out’ dresses, my diamonte earrings for sipping Pimms at 6pm (conventional wisdom dictates that one should never wear diamonds before the cocktail hour). You name it, it went in the case. A girl has standards and I had to look the part on my grand tour. We were booked onto a boat called ‘The Romance’ , described as having a sophisticated relaxed ambiance. What could be more perfect. We’re talking classy, none of your tacky cruise cabaret here. A packed itinerary would ensure I got to show off even my floral tea dresses (afternoon tea would be served on deck at 4pm daily). I had the correct attire for any occasion even if like Agetha Christy I was called upon to solve the odd murder.
We arrived to the boat late at night ready to set sail at 10am the following morning. The next morning I put back on my crumpled clothes I’d worn travelling the day before. My shoes were not suitable for any grand tour. I looked around the boat, bereft at the sight of a pool on deck and me with not a bikini or swimming togs to my name. Baba, one of the porters working on deck felt sorry for me and insisted on taking be shopping before the boat sailed. I was about to hit the high street in Luxor. Suddenly feeling more optimistic, “I’ll pick up a bikini and flip flops as well as a couple of dresses”.
Last weekend, I took myself off for a trip to the West of Ireland with my two amigos. Where else would a Domestic Goddess go but Dromoland Castle to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. Actually, we pretended to stay there. Due to my impoverished status, we stayed at the Inn at Dromoland, not the castle itself (which incidently was voted the world’s number one hotel). A Goddess has standards, and clearly the world number two hotel wouldn’t do.
From the Inn, it was a ten minute walk in biblical weather to the castle. The howling wind did nothing for our hair as we struggled through the grounds. Such was the tangled mess on my head that I feared birds would attempt to nest. Get inside pronto.
Two hours later we set out for a tipsy walk back to the Inn this time with a blissful disregard for what the weather would do to our hair. A nice gentleman gatekeeper appeared in the courtesy car and dropped us back.
Myself and Himself headed off for a one night stay in Westport (or as Bridget Jones would say a ‘full blown mini-break weekend’). It’s a three hour drive from Dublin so I thought I could cajole him into making it two nights, but he couldn’t be persuaded. In retrospect this was a good plan as the parting comment from my teenage son as we left “I’ll only have a few of my mates over, just one or two”(yeah right..)
On Saturday night we found a nice corner in an old pub and nestled in for the night for what we thought would be a few quiet drinking. By 9.30 the place was full. At 10pm the live music arrived, a couple of guys with guitars. For the week that was in it, they started playing David Bowie numbers to our absolute delight. A sing song of sorts erupted. A handful of girls there on a hens weekend appeared and livened up the proceedings. A makeshift dance floor no bigger than a postage stamp allowed the hens to strut their stuff. They were lets say ‘spirited’ but not messy, just givin’ it socks. The place heaving with people at this stage, encouraged by the sing song, the guitar guys decided to crank it up a notch. The usual crowd pleasers belted out ‘Sweet Caroline’ , ‘Brown Eyed Girl’, ‘Uptown Funk’ weirdly interspersed with a few traditional Irish ballads. I looked around, everyone seemed to be joining in a woozy rendition of ‘Jean Genie’ .