Travel Shows and Travel No's

Ah, the wonderful world of the travel show. Having fought valiantly and, eventually, successfully with the four foot by eight foot bendy bits of our stand, and finally been able to make them stand to attention (with the use of copious amounts of electrical tape, superglue and sticky-back plastic), we were all ready to go. Every year, my company has a stand at a particular travel show which is held at a particular venue in central London. It's actually a really good fun event, and gives us a chance to boast enormously and shamelessly about our products, what we do, how we do it and how utterly brilliant we are. We are also lucky enough to have previous and current clients visit us on the stand and tell us that we're brilliant. Altogether, a rather ego-boosting experience.

But, like any event such as this, you do get the odd weirdo plodding around. The ones who parade around the show in full safari gear, as if they'd just got off the plane in deepest Africa, complete with hiking sticks and mosquito proof hats. The brochure collectors, dragging round old-lady wheeled shopping baskets with them, collecting brochures by the ton. The job seekers. And finally, that almost dying breed (she says hopefully), the memory laners. Now, some of these can be really interesting to listen to. But some aren't. "Ooh, yes, we went to South Africa, about seven years ago, wasn't it seven years ago, dear, yes, it was, and we did the wine bits and then we visited Cape Town and we went to that lovely little restaurant, and I had the mussels and you had the salmon, or did you have the mussels, and I had the salmon, anyway it was lovely and then we walked down this little street and then we visited this vineyard and I tried the white and you tried the red, didn't you dear, or was it that you tried the white and I tried the red, anyway, it was lovely and we bought a case of the white which was lovely and then we went along the coast a bit and we sat overlooking the ocean, and then you had a glass of the white and I didn't because I was driving and then we went a bit further and we visited that place with all the thingies in it, and then we stayed at this little guest farm which was lovely, and then we......" by which time your eyes have glazed over and you're staring into the middle distance with an expression not unlike the man begging the firing squad to just pull the bloody trigger.

Now, I'm not saying that it's all like this. In fact, today was probably one of the best days I've had in my history of travel shows. Not only was I lucky enough to have not one, not two, but three of my best friends turn up on the stand to say hello, but I also had two of my dearest clients turn up for a chat (greeting me with the words "how many orangutans will I see in Africa?" - oh BLESS YOUR HEARTS for reading and appreciating my blog - it gave me the thrill of a lifetime to have it quoted to me!). I also saw, for the first time in years, two of my oldest clients and friends from when I used to live in Zambia and run a bushcamp. They reminded me of a brilliant story from when I first met them.

I ran a bushcamp in deepest, darkest Zambia. (No, I am not attempting to emulate Baroness Blixen's eponymous speech "I had a farm in Africa...."). Anyway. I had a bushcamp in Africa, under the Mchinga escarpment....

In my bushcamp, we had plenty of very large, very tall, very bushy trees. Which grew in all directions. We were lucky enough to have one tree which grew, parallel to the ground, and in a perfect position to hang a hammock off it. The reason I'm explaining this in minute, mathematician detail will become clear. We'd been out with these clients on a late night game drive, trying to find a hyena den which we suspected had cubs. On the way back to camp, I'd been regaling them with my stories of being an excellent barmaid, so they challenged me to make a superb cocktail. On arriving back in camp, I leapt out of the vehicle, flashlight in one hand, coolbox in the other, and dashed towards the bar. Can you see where this is going?

Yup. I ran straight into the hammock tree, the trunk of which was cunningly positioned right on a level with my forehead. Isaac, my scout, told me later that my body had kept going and my head stayed still, after its thwacking impact with the trunk. I'd knocked myself out cold. A couple of minutes later, surrounded by concerned guests and giggling staff, I'd groggily come to, struggled to my feet, and manfully (or womanfully) made it to the bar. Where I proceeded to pour everyone drinks. Much to their consternation. Baileys and Campari, anyone? Gin and milk? Or how about a lovely white wine and custard? It was fairly obvious that I'd sustained a rather major concussion. My attempts at conversation were verging on the "parsnips on the internet" genre, and so one of the guests, an ex-army nurse, very gently but firmly led me to my room and dressed my wounds. I had the imprint of a tree on my forehead and a very large and obvious gash across my nose. I have no idea what I said to her but, bless her heart, she never let on. I seem to remember telling her I loved her more than baked beans. But maybe that's a figment of my imagination.

The next day, at early breakfast, with a bump the size of a goose egg on my forehead, I again attempted to make tea for everyone. Until my lovely guests (realising I was still, to put it mildly, three sheets to the wind) very gently sat me down on one of the camp chairs, where I promptly fell asleep. Until four o'clock in the afternoon. Apparently I didn't move at all, while camp kept going around me. I then very groggily came to (does this story have shades of the Drunken Honey Badger?) and meandered back to my tent, where I promptly fell asleep again. And didn't wake up until morning. I'm told that my lovely barman came into my tent every hour or so to check that I was still breathing. It really wouldn't do to have to write an awkward letter to my father.

"Dear Sir, We regret to inform you that your daughter has popped her clogs due to an argument with a Breonadia microcephela..."

Orangutans and Safari Guides

Now, I get asked a lot of questions, working in this industry. Usually I can answer them all brilliantly, succinctly and accurately. But occasionally one will crop up which absolutely (to coin a revolting phrase) blindsides me. Just like the one I was asked a few weeks ago. I'd been merrily chatting away to a lovely chap who wanted to go to Africa on safari. He'd obviously done his research, talked knowledgeably about going for walks in the bush, the different places he wanted to visit and what he wanted to do when he got there. And then he asked me one of "those" questions. The ones that make you want to splurt with laughter but of course you can't, because there's a client on the phone who will probably get rather irritated with the sound of your giggles down the phone line. So what did he ask, I hear you say. Well here it is.

"How many orangutans will I see in Africa?"

Dear reader, I swear I thought he was kidding. I really did. I mean, having done as much research as he obviously had, and to be as seemingly knowledgeable as I thought he was, I was sure that he was taking the mick. So of course I treated it as a joke. Laughed a little and then said something about the fact that he was such a joker. But unfortunately he wasn't kidding. He was being serious. I'm serious.

Of course, every safari consultant worth their salt has stories of Questions I Have Been Asked - such as "what is the rainy season? Is that when it rains all the time?" and "do I need to bring food to feed the animals?" But this one really took the biscuit (chocolate hob-nob, since you ask). How does one dig oneself out of that one? I know I occasionally have a habit of only opening my mouth to change feet, but surely I can be forgiven for my response to this?

It reminds me of a particular safari I took when I was a mere whippersnapper. We had a superb guide, Marcus, with a weatherbeaten face, copper bangles on his wrists (with the obligatory green stains on his arms), very short shorts, a bush knife that would shame Crocodile Dundee hanging from his belt, and a lion's tooth on a leather thong around his neck. Classic Safari Guide, circa 1985. Being an impressionable teenager, I developed an enormous crush on him and followed him, fawning unashamedly, around his camp. To his credit, he treated this hormone-addled hanger-on with gentleness, even going so far as to whip out his knife to dig a thorn out of my foot (I had the romantic notion of walking round barefoot to impress him. Until I stood on a thorn and squealed like a golfer who's just been hit in the nuts with a golf club). This was true Safari Fever. I had just watched Out of Africa, with the aristocratic Baroness Blixen and the rugged Denys Finch-Hatton. I won't make you nauseous with all the daydreams I conjured up, whilst gazing into the middle distance. Suffice to say I thought he was "well lush", to emulate the vernacular of the day.

But lovely Marcus didn't suffer fools gladly. Which was proved on a rather exciting game drive that we took. I sat next to him in the passenger seat (how obvious was I?) and there were two other guests in the back of the cruiser. We stopped to watch a pride of lion, doing what lions do, which is essentially sleeping and farting. One of the guests leant forward. Marcus leant back, to listen to her. She cleared her throat.

"What time is feeding time?"

Marcus smirked, and cleared his throat. We all waited with bated breath while he considered his response. What nugget of fascinating information was he about to impart?

"Take a walk, and you'll find out".

Remembering Mum

I think it's fair to say that January, as a month, is a tricky one. Christmas is all over and done with, the credit card bills are coming in, it's cold and rainy (and occasionally snowy) and it's the month when we're all hoping that our long overdue Christmas bonus will arrive.

But for me, and for my brothers, January is a particularly poignant month. And a difficult one. January 21st, to be precise. This January 21st marks the eighth anniversary of the death of our mother. Eight whole years. Four hundred and sixteen weeks. Two thousand, nine hundred and twelve days.

Each year that it's come round, I've dreaded it. Not so much the day itself but what it's come to represent. Another year without Mum. Things that were blurry memories suddenly come into sharp focus. I remember clearly when we all came home from the hospital, shell-shocked, wretched and disbelieving. Mum's clothes were still on the bedroom chair where she'd left them, her slippers by the door, her coffee cup on her desk, still with a remnant of coffee at the bottom. I kept that mug for years and years, untouched. I still have her favourite t-shirt, long since divested of her scent.

Mum died, age 54, of complications arising from the influenza virus. Half an hour after I'd brought her a fresh glass of lucozade, I went up to her room to find her, apparently asleep. But she wasn't sleeping. Those minutes that passed between my finding her and the ambulance arriving were the loneliest moments I've ever spent in my entire life. I was wracked with guilt for years afterward because I think I remember shouting at her as I was trying to resuscitate her. But she was gone. It was apparently the most random occurrence, as if God had lined up everyone in Oxfordshire and taken a pot shot.

And now, eight years later, I still remember the little things about Mum. It's a cliche, but she was my best friend. We'd snuggle up on her bed with mugs of hot chocolate and talk about everything. I remember her way of giving little signs - a secret smile, a wink, a quick squeeze of my fingers. I remember the way that she laughed, throwing her head back and clasping her hands. And the way that she stood, always with one foot on tiptoe. It's something I unconsciously do now.

People say that you have to wait two years after the death of a close one to feel even slightly normal again. I'm not sure that's necessarily right. I think rather it comes in fits and starts. One day I can be fine, and then the next I can feel as if I'm at the bottom of a long tunnel, looking up at blackness. Then the next day I'm fine again. It catches you unawares. There's a piece in one of my favourite books, describing a Mother's grief over the death of her daughter. She talks about how she keeps moving, and that way her grief streams out behind her, like a swimmer's long hair in water. It's only when she stops moving that it entangles her, and pulls her down. That struck a real chord with me.

But we move on, and continue to exist, because there is no alternative. I think about Mum every day, and miss her every day. I grieve for my future children, having missed out on knowing the best Granny there could have been. And, I get angry. Very angry. Occasionally with Mum. Of course it is not her fault that she had to leave us, but the fact is, she did. Grief produces all sorts of irrational thoughts, and it's learning how to deal with them that is the grieving process. in the beginning, I was overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers. The man in a blue four wheel drive who found me, hysterical and screaming in our drive while the paramedics worked on Mum, and gently put his arms round me, telling me to just breathe, just breathe. The lady in Waitrose who put down her shopping, took me by the hand and led me gently out of the store when she found me, sobbing and incoherent, in the breakfast aisle, clutching a pot of Mum's favourite marmalade. And all the people who have confided in me their thoughts, their feelings, their grief at the loss of one of their loved ones. Although I am now part of a club I never wanted to join, it's a comfort to know that the other members are so friendly.

So, another year passes. I fight a little harder to keep the memories of Mum fresh in my mind, surround myself with pictures of her, and try to be the person that she'd want me to be. I know I don't succeed all of the time. But as Mum used to say, "it's the fact that you've tried that counts".

And I count myself lucky. For twenty-seven years, I knew a beautiful, strong, sparkling, feisty and brave lady, who I was lucky enough to be able to call Mum. And I would not change that for the world.

The Ballad of the Drunken Honey Badger

Okay, okay, I give in. The pressure's just too much. Here, in all its glory, is the story of the drunken honey badger.

I should perhaps explain first what a honey badger is, shouldn't I? The name sounds lovely - all cuddly and sweet. Honey badger. You imagine a snuggly, cuddly little furry animal with beetle-black eyes, a sweet disposition and big floppy paws, right? Wrong.

Honey badgers are psychotic with a capital P. More vicious than Mike Tyson on acid, harder than Vinnie Jones with a chainsaw and more irritable than me after I've just found a parking ticket on my car. These chaps mean business. They are, for all their ferocity, relatively small - about a metre long, with big claws and very sharp teeth. And a slightly squished nose. Although don't tell them I said that. They live in the wild bush of Africa, and their staple diet is....you've guessed it, honey. But of course in Africa, eating honey is not all about popping down to your local supermarket and buying a jar. Oh no. These chaps rip open bees nests with their bare paws and scoff down the honey then and there. Whilst being stung. Repeatedly. All over. By millions of bees. Are you beginning to get the picture?

But that's not the only thing they do. Legend tells of honey badgers attacking land cruisers, lions, hyenas and even killing buffalo. Don't ask me how they do it. Suffice to say a bull buffalo has a very tender area dangling between his back legs, and honey badgers have very sharp teeth. Nuff said.

So, when we discovered that we had a resident honey badger at my camp, I have to say I was none too pleased. I think my exact words were "we need more ammunition". I was not happy that he'd moved in. So I named him Herbert. Very anthropomorphic, I know. The other resident animals around camp weren't too happy either. For months beforehand, our camp had entertained the wonderfully dimwitted Henry, our resident hyena. Henry was a sweetie. And I say that even though he used to break into my shower (hosepipe in a tree, to be exact) and steal my soap and toothpaste. We would find the bars of soap outside camp with teethmarks and slobber all over them. At least it would freshen his breath! But Henry was harmless. I think goofy would be a good way to describe him. He'd blunder around in our kitchen scullery area looking for scraps, try to get into the kitchen and occasionally wander off with a coolbox in his mouth. We quite liked having him around.

But all this changed when Herbert moved in. Poor Henry got the shock of his life one evening, when, mooching around the kitchen as was his routine, he came round the corner to find a snarling, growling, spitting honey badger. Now I must add here that Henry was about twice the size of Herbert. And hyenas are known for their incredible bite strength - their jaws can crack elephant bones. So what did Henry do? Draw himself up to his full height and growl back? Start squaring up? Nope. He turned tail and ran, whimpering. Such is the fear engendered when a honey badger is around.

So, having Herbert resident in our camp certainly kept us on our toes. Heading into the back of camp to get more ice, or more glasses, we were all on the alert for that raspy growl that signalled that he was around. More than once he chased me right through camp, growling all the way. He was not popular.

So, onto our story. Camp was a simple affair, with a big wooden bar between the trunks of two trees, and a couple of makeshift shelves for all our bottles of gin, vodka, amarula etc. One night, as usual, Herbert came into camp and started ferreting around in the kitchen area. A few days previously, he'd broken into our storecupboard, ripped open all the packets of sugar and flour, pooed on it and then slept in it. When Frances, our chef, opened the door the next morning, a floured, sugared and pooey honey badger hurtled straight between his legs and off into the bush. Poor Frances was so shocked he had to sit down and have a glass of brandy. Given that Herbert made his escape between Frances' legs, and Frances knew about honey badgers and buffalos, I'm not surprised he was a bit shaky. So when Herbert came back, he found the storecupboard door firmly boarded up.

I can only assume what happened next, but I imagine the following: Herbert, thwarted in his quest to make another Honey Badger Mud Pie, then sauntered down to the bar area. I imagine that he climbed up onto the bar, stood on his hind legs and sniffed at the bottles there. I imagine that the Amarula bottle fell down onto the sand, and that Herbert, with his very strong teeth, chewed through the metal cap.

The evidence the next morning was clear: scratch marks on the storecupboard in the kitchen, footprints leading to the bar, footprints on the bar counter and an empty bottle of Amarula behind. Oh, and, not forgetting the unconscious honey badger, lying on his back in an attitude of utter bliss. And snoring loudly.

This presented us with a dilemma. We had guests in camp, and the world's most irritable creature was about to wake up with the world's worst hangover. Nul points for 'elf and safety. It was decided that he must be moved out into the bush to sleep it all off. And there started the second problem of the day. None of the camp staff wanted to go near him, let alone touch him (honey badgers can be very smelly at times. But again, don't tell them I said that.) I tried bribery. I tried threats. I tried stamping my foot. In the end my wonderfully brave scout offered to help but only if he could be at the foot end. I would have to take the head end, close to those needle-sharp teeth. We took up our positions. I grabbed Herbert's front paws, John grabbed his back paws, and together, puffing and panting, we half-dragged, half-carried him off into the bush. About a few hundred yards out of camp (a safe distance, we figured, although our exhaustion may have played a part in the decision) we dumped him unceremoniously under a large tree and went back.

I have to say, I can be quite sentimental sometimes. For even though Herbert was the bane of my life, and terrified me to my very soul when he chased me around camp, I found myself feeling rather concerned about him. Would he ever wake up? Had he drunk so much that it might kill him? Obviously I didn't want that. How would I explain to the park authorities that I'd poisoned a honey badger with a bottle of Amarula? So I kept just wandering out of camp and checking on him. Our guests came back from their morning walk - he was still slumbering. After brunch, I checked again. Still asleep. I went out just before afternoon tea, and he was still blotto. Finally, as we were clearing away afternoon tea and the guests were heading out on their afternoon walk (in the opposite direction, I might add) he started to stir. We watched from a safe distance.

Having staggered to his feet, he then shook his head a few times and growled. Clearly he had a stonker of a headache. He then attempted a few steps. But ended up walking in circles, as if his left legs were shorter than his right. He sat down hard on his haunches a few times, and then wobbled back to his feet, growling all the time. Finally he managed to take a few steps - and walked headlong into the tree that we'd put him under. He jumped back, growled at the tree trunk, and then unsteadily made his way round the tree and off into the bush. We heard his growls getting fainter. Isaac, our camp barman, swears he heard a hiccup.

Poor Herbert! I did feel rather sorry for him. Having never had a hangover before, how must he have felt after an entire bottle of Amarula! He didn't appear in camp at all for the next week, giving Henry a welcome holiday from being snarled at. I actually started to miss him. But then he came back. And let us know in no uncertain terms how grumpy he was at having been poisoned. When we walked into the (animal-proof, or so we thought) kitchen the next day, it had been well and truly Herbetted. I won't describe the carnage. Suffice it to say, Herbert had got his revenge. Well and truly. And as a final "cherry on the top", he'd left his calling card. Not just anywhere though, as you might think. No. He positioned it very carefully, right on top of our booze store.

That's one honey badger that you could end up seeing at an AA meeting.

'Tis the season to remember...

I've had a fantastic Christmas. No, I'm not boasting (well, maybe just a little bit). But it was simply lovely. Snow, mulled wine, an enormous great glistening turkey, wonderful company, lunchtime pub-visits, presents, it was a picture-postcard of how Christmas should be. All this despite the fact that Wonderful Man and I both came down with the Christmas flu bug that's been going round (a perfect excuse for a hot toddy!).

But today I'd like to remember something else. In fact, someone else. My wonderfully eccentric, slightly dotty, larger-than-life Auntie Gwen. Sadly we heard that she'd died of a heart attack early on Boxing Day morning.

It's always hard when someone dies at Christmastime - in the midst of all the celebration, the Christmas cheer, the laughter, there's a sad pause, an emptiness that doesn't dominate but still affects. As Sting rightly puts it, "there's a little black spot on the sun today...."

Auntie Gwen was a character. My first memories of her were trips down to her house on the edge of a huge valley, sitting in her large drawing room with its oil paintings of ducks, making funny shaped bread rolls with her in her oven, climbing the trees in her orchard and shaking the branches so the apples would fall, and playing with her dogs. For Auntie Gwen always had dogs. From Patsy, her horse-sized Newfoundland who I could ride on as a small child, to a huggably soft springer spaniel called Bracken (if memory serves me) to her last dog, an enormous and excitably bouncy labrador cross called Shadow. Auntie Gwen was never without a dog. Legend had it that when she'd adopted a tiny little dog (her one and only small dog) and it bit her, she bit it right back. On the nose.

We loved our visits to her house, scrambling up and down the steep banks of her wild garden, thrashing around with Patsy, fishing in the streams and then climbing the trees to crunch down mouthfuls of teeth-gratingly sharp apples. Patsy taught me one of my first lessons about animals and death - hearing a high pitched cry, I jumped over the wall to see her shaking a rabbit, floppy and broken-necked in her mouth. Rather than being repulsed, we were fascinated.

While we made free with her garden, she would sit for hours in her swinging seat with my mother, their gentle laughter drifting over to where we would be digging up worms, making dams in the stream, or simply making huge piles of shiny apples. She and my mother had a beautiful connection, ever since my mother was a child and would go and stay with Auntie Gwen on her farm. Together they would pick daffodils, feed the calves, walk along the hedgerows, go and say hello to the horses (starting a lifelong love affair with horses for my mother) and spend their days outside in the sun. My mother used to tell us her favourite story about bathtime - Auntie Gwen would station her golden retriever, Goldie, to watch over Mum in the bath. The moment she walked out of the room, Mum would call the dog, who, ever playful, would leap merrily into the bath, splashing water everywhere. When Auntie Gwen came back in with warmed towels, she would find Mum shampooing Goldie's hair, the dog sitting in the bathwater looking utterly blissful.

In later years, Auntie Gwen lived halfway up a remote welsh mountain, overlooking hills and valleys, first with another newfoundland, Bumble (approximately the size of a bear), and then with the inimitable Shadow. A little older, a little more stooped, and maybe a little more dotty, she still replied to my letters faithfully, telling me about Shadow, about the village, the weather. On one memorable occasion when I visited with my brother, she demonstrated her bath-lift to us. Fully clothed, of course but still slightly disconcerting!

Auntie Gwen was the last of the older female generation in our family. I like to think that she's happy somewhere with the rest of her family - her mother (my great-grandmother), her sister (my grandmother), her niece (my mother) and all the other strong and feisty females that make up my ancestors. Probably with a large gin and tonic in her hand.

Auntie Gwen, wherever you are...we salute you.

'Tis the season to be Generous (unless M&S have anything to do with it)

Now, I have to say that I'm rather known to be organised. It's a trait of mine, for better or worse. Some may call it bossy. Some may call it smug. My family call me Monica (named after that dark-haired, obsessively anal one in friends who ended up hooking up with Chandler, and who has her very own ribbon drawer. Personally, I see nothing wrong with a ribbon drawer. But anyway). I call it perfect, slick organisation. Which is why I started buying my Christmas presents in August. Ah, now you may scoff, you may snigger. But all my christmas presents were bought and wrapped by the middle of December. Which of course gave me a lot of spare time to eat mince pies, drink mulled wine and generally get squiffy all the time...ahem, enjoy the Christmas season.

Until, that is, I merrily offered to help out with a few of Wonderful Man's presents. A jumper for his father in softest cashmere, and a few gorgeous little baby things for his brand new shiny niece. Easy peasy, I thought. Straight onto the M&S website, order them and bob is undoubtedly your mother's brother. Or so I thought.

Having spoken to a terribly sweet lady and ordered said items, I insisted that they be delivered to my work on 22nd December. She promised they'd be there. I impressed on her yet again how important it was. She promised faithfully that they'd be there on the 22nd December, come hell or high water. I believed her.

22nd December came around. I sat at my desk, chattering away to clients, sending out quotes, issuing invoices, updating our website etc etc merrily thinking that at some stage Nice Postman would walk in with a big box with M&S embossed on the side. But alas. Nothing was forthcoming. I rang M&S and was treated to a Christmas jingle on their hold music. Lovely. Until the 47th time. The lobotomised gibbon who I ended up speaking to told me that they'd had delivery issues. I impressed on him/her/it that these presents were VERY IMPORTANT and that they must be delivered. She/he/it promised me faithfully that they would be delivered the next day.

Come the hour, cometh the man, the saying goes. Well that's a pile of old tosh. The hour came, but no man with it. Not even a snifter of one. I rang M&S. "It's out on the van, it will be delivered today". I rang the delivery company, who shall remain nameless (Home Delivery Network...shame on you). "It's on the van but our drivers can deliver up to 10pm". Our office closes at 5.30pm. Hmmmmm.

So that evening found me curled up in Optimus Prime (no, that's not a filthy reference, it's the name of my car) outside the office waiting for White Van Man. Never, ever in my life have I ever wanted to see a White Van Man. But he didn't come. 7pm, 8pm, 9pm ticked by. No show. Eventually at 9.30pm (having had no less than twelve separate drunken revellers knock on my window with an "ello darlin!") I gave up and sloped home.

But it doesn't end there. I rang the delivery company and spoke to another lobotomised gibbon. "Please take the parcel off the van and I'll collect it in person tomorrow". She assured me she would. I made her promise. She promised. I told her that if that parcel wasn't taken off the van then our Christmas would be ruined and it would be all her fault. She promised faithfully.

Next morning, over a cuppa, I rang the delivery company. "Oh, I'm sorry, that parcel wasn't taken off the van. It will be delivered sometime between now and midnight". Bear in mind this was the 24th December and I was meant to be collecting Wonderful Man and driving out to his parents for Christmas. At 2pm. My "WHAT????" reverberated around the room, followed swiftly by my phone.

But I am never thwarted. And these presents were Important. So I rang M&S. In Richmond. No jumper and no baby things. I then rang Putney. No jumper and no baby things. I rang Chiswick. No jumper and no baby things. I rang....well, you get the picture. My phone, having been flung across the room, was now being made to sing for its supper. Finally I spoke to a lady in Kingston, who assured me she had all three items. In stock. And not necessarily the same colour but at least the same size. And still a nice colour.

I think I can truthfully say that Carol at Marks and Spencer Kingston saved Christmas. For having driven there at top speed, raced through the centre of Kingston, thronged with last-minute shoppers, I dove into the warm and fuzzy sanctuary of M&S menswear to see a warm, cuddly, matronly lady standing there. "I saw you coming all up the street love. I knew it was you, you sounded that frantic on the phone. Here's your pressies. Happy Christmas, love." I could have kissed her. In fact I think I may have. But she wasn't wearing cherry chapstick, so at least I'm not a stereotype. So excited was I in fact that I took the bags and was about to hotfoot out of the store with them. Until she called me back, leant close and stage-whispered, "you 'ave to pay for them, love." Oops.

All we hear is Radio Gaga....

Well this is very exciting! I am about to have my fifteen minutes (well, three and a half really but who's counting?) of fame! For in the midst of all this BA chaos (thanks guys) I received a phone call from BBC Three Counties radio. The upshoot is that at precisely 10.37am tomorrow morning I will be interviewed, live on air, about microlighting in Zambia.

Microlighting? Yes indeed. Let me paint a picture for you.

An early African dawn. Night noises surrendering to the sounds of the morning - the ground hornbills booming, elephants rumbling, hippos grunting and the sounds of the dawn chorus filtering through the air. The sun is a mere orange glow and the last few stars are clinging to the sky. The air is crisp, with a hint of coolness. The microlight is an amazing invention - able to soar into the sky within a few seconds of acceleration, it can reach a height of some 1500 feet, or swoop down low over game. I have microlighted with John Coppinger, the owner of Tafika Camp in South Luangwa National Park many times. We have buzzed low over hippos, flown over the nest of a giant eagle owl and seen the fluffy chick in residence, circled a lone lioness on the plain (who looked up at us with an uncomprehending stare) and flown over vast herds of elephant and buffalo. It's a totally new way to view the world that you have previously only seen on foot or on the back of a gameviewing vehicle. And it's very exhilarating!

So...chocks away!

Borealis Bob and a polar bear called Hrammur

You know, I planned on being totally faithful to this blog. I really did. Every evening, glass of merlot in hand, I'd wittily and eruditely recount the events of the day.

But I have been remiss. Mea culpa. My poor little blog has been sadly neglected. But this shall be rectified forthwith! Just let me pour myself a glass...

Now...Iceland. Land of frozen wastes, the odd mountain, glacier fields, geysers, geezers with beards, expensive booze and left hand drive cars. And of course Northern Lights. Ah, the Northern Lights. Wonderful Man was very excited about getting a superb shot of these little babies (which come in all shades of green, red or even purple depending on sun spots. Apparently. More on that later). But sadly it was not to be. Not this time, anyway.

But our lovely hotel, the Hotel Ranga (complete with Hrammur the polar bear - a mere ten feet tall, paws raised and outstretched, teeth bared, and wearing a santa hat, he towers over reception with a glint in his eye) more than made up for it. In the middle of a glacier field, miles from anywhere, this log-cabined haven rears up from the darkness. An orangey glow filters from the windows, and outside the rooms there are hot tubs. Hot tubs!

On our first night we stayed up late, set up camp (and a bank of cameras) on the balcony, and waited for the show to start. Something was happening. We couldn't see much because of the thick cloud, but there was a dancing, a sparkling in the corner of the sky. Lights were moving behind the cloud, constantly changing, first bright, then dark, then moving from side to side. Right above us there were stars - the Ranga is in a strange, slightly Bermuda-triangle-esque area, meaning that a hole opens in the cloud above the hotel, yet the horizon is shrouded in thick cloud.

But the hotel has much much more than that. More than the pool table complete with reindeer antler chandelier (where I discovered that Wonderful Man was a pool shark), more than the smorgasbord with over ninety delicacies from smoked salmon to whale (we feasted on twelve different types of herring, the most delicious thing I have ever tasted), and even more than the midnight dips in the steaming hot tubs. The Hotel Ranga has Borealis Bob. The encyclopaedically knowledgeable Borealis Bob. Dapper in a sharp suit, what this chap doesn't know about the Aurora Borealis ain't worth knowing. He regaled us with tales of sun spots, atmospheric pressure, borealis colours and Times I Have Seen The Lights. And then to cap it all off, he gave us a stunningly enthusiastic rendition of Hotel California. Thrashing away on his electric guitar, head thrown back, he wellied it into the microphone with a voice that would melt the Eiffel Tower. Although of course it was "Welcome to the one and only Hotel Ranga". For not only is Borealis Bob a world authority on the lights, but he is also an ex-rock star, having played in a band called BB and the Medicine Men. We were entranced! So entranced in fact that we have booked to return in March, for a whole blissful week of lights, herring and ice. And of course Bob. Hotel Ranga wouldn't be the one and only Hotel Ranga without him.

And to think that this was my birthday present from Wonderful Man. A girl can't get much luckier.

Round and About

I´m actually doing it. Driving on the wrong side of the road, sitting on the wrong side of the car. Not as difficult as I thought it would be. Bar a few incidents. Well, one incident, actually.

There has been just one time in my life when I went round a roundabout the wrong way. I was nineteen, had just passed my driving test, and had borrowed my father´s car. It should perhaps be mentioned here that he thought I was taking the car just along the road to the next village. In fact, in typical rebellious teenager style, and desperate to show off my new skills, I´d organised a group of my friends and told them I´d take them to the cinema in Swindon, about twenty miles away. Dad, if you´re reading this, then I´ll call you in a few weeks time when you´ve simmered down.

Anyway, I digress. I took the car, a huge volvo estate, picked up my excited friends and drove to Swindon, where there was a huge cinema complex on the far side of town through all the industrial estates. But we nearly didn´t make it. Coming into Swindon there is a particular roundabout called the Magic Roundabout. In fact there´s nothing at all magic about it, apart from its ability to strike instant fear and loathing into the heart of the most sturdy driver. It consists of ten small roundabouts surrounding one big one, and is a nightmare to navigate. But I was ridiculously overconfident. I´ve been driving on my own for all of three weeks, having passed my fourth driving test after bankrupting my parents to the tune of over eighty lessons. I can do this!

I sailed round the roundabouts, vaguely aware that all my passengers had gone very quiet, bar the odd whimper. When we´d finally made it across, the boy in the passenger seat turned to me and said, 'have you actually, really, truly passed your driving test?' 'Of course!' I said, indignantly. 'Well do you realise you´ve just gone round eight roundabouts the wrong way?'

So, given my track record I felt that driving in Iceland should be a piece of cake. Wonderful Man had hired a rather splendid car, and being the proud possessor of an international driving permit, I was to do the driving. So off we set, me on the wrong side of the car, on the wrong side of the road and also relearning how to use a stick-shift (my own car, the glorious and aptly named Optimus Prime, is an automatic). But again, I was ridiculously confident. And for the first forty or so kilometres, despite getting hopelessly lost in Reykjavik, it all went as smoothly as a baby´s bottom. Until, that is, I hit a roundabout.

There are relatively few things in life which make me go truly gushy. A newborn elephant taking his first wobbly steps maybe, the sound of a blackbird in the early dawn - or the scent of Wonderful Man´s neck first thing in the morning. But not much. But this did. For I found myself, on an Icelandic roundabout, heading fast into the side of an enormous and fast-moving four-wheel-drive. 'Watch it! Watch it!' said Wonderful Man, and I braked, very narrowly avoiding a collision. Shock, shame and horror filled me (she says dramatically). With such precious cargo on board, and merely an hour´s driving under my belt, I´d nearly written off our car. I glanced sideways at Wonderful Man. Was he rolling his eyes? No. Was he gripping the Jesus handle for dear life? No. Was he making a comment which included the words, 'bloody', 'women', and 'drivers'? No.

Instead he did the one thing that made my heart fold itself into a paper aeroplane and shoot out of my chest towards him.

He turned to me and said, 'Actually, I think that was the other guy´s fault'.

They don't make 'em like that in Wigan.

Suitcases and Stickiness

There are some things which just don't seem to go together. Chalk and cheese, to be terribly obvious. Branston pickle and mango sorbet. Spots and stripes. Strappy sandals and a freak thunderstorm. And superglue and fingers. Or thumbs, to be precise. So as Ruth Jones might say, 'what's occurrin'?'

Wonderful Man is taking me away for a weekend of Northern Lighting. And by that I don't mean the lighting department of the Nottingham branch of Homebase. This is far more exciting! We are off to Iceland, to stay in a hotel in the middle of the glacier fields, and view (hopefully) the elusive and beautiful northern lights. It's my birthday present, and a damn fine one it is too. For weeks now I have been surreptitiously googling Iceland websites, devouring pages and pages of snowy landscapes and twinkling skies. Not to mention the hot tubs on the balcony of each room at the hotel. I feel absolutely spoilt rotten. And it's a nice feeling.

So, to prepare for such a momentous event I have been planning. Outfits have been tried on, tested, discarded, even photographed. Vast amounts of heattech clothing have been bought. Fluffy jumpers have been dragged out of my underbed storage boxes, and a utopia of scarves, gloves and hats has been unearthed.

But clearly, given a girl's need for clothes, there is a greater need to have something in which to carry them. Enter stage left, my faithful and trusty Marks and Spencer wheelie bag. Stronger than an ox, this has carried me round the world and back again, and has played host to many a strange item - from 8kg of cheese I took out to Sweden, to a long tribal wooden pillow I brought back from Zambia. It's never failed me. Until now. For on dragging it from its home in the back recesses of my office cupboard, I was dismayed to find that one of the wheel housings had broken, leaving the wheel flapping all over the place.

Cut to my return, late last night, with a few glasses of rather splendid merlot on board. Should I just have washed my face and curled up in bed with a good book? Probably. But instead I decided to DIY my suitcase. Out came the superglue, which was promptly squirted liberally all over the offending break point. But the wheel kept popping out of the suitcase casing. I know! I'll hold it in there with my thumbs, and press hard until it's set. Brilliant idea. Hence I was to be found kneeling on a suitcase at one o'clock in the morning, pressing bits of plastic with my thumbs.

It worked brilliantly. The suitcase was mended beautifully, never to break again. Unfortunately the superglue worked rather too brilliantly, wtih the net result being that on removing my hands from the suitcase, it came with them, dangling rather forlornly off my right thumb, having been well and truly glued there. I tried to shake it off. Nul points. I tried to peel it off. Ouch. In the end I dragged the suitcase through to the office and googled "stuck fingers".

Who knew that a liberal coating of vegetable oil and a twenty-five minute wait could be so effective?