As old as the woman you feel

A wise man once said "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?" And, as it's coming up to my birthday (gosh, I'm going to be so old), I got thinking.

How old would I like to be?

0 - 2 years - No stress. Sit. Lie down a little. Cry a bit. Play. Eat. All your needs are dealt with, no responsibility. Now that's a life I could get used to. Much like a cat I would be ruler of my own universe, know I was right in all circumstances and would be able to turn my affection on and off at whim.

6-7 years - I have few memories from this period but I do remember endless summers. I always seemed to be playing, even when at school. Friends could be made and dropped in an instant. There was no pressure to look good or to wear the right things. If you were teased you were safe in the knowledge that your mother had dressed you so therefore, it wasn't your fault. Food seemed nicer at this age. Maybe because everything was new.

Teen years - Surprisingly idyllic. Is this because I was living in a hot country with few distractions apart from horses and sport? Could it be that I just didn't care what people thought? Still?

30 - 40 years - For some reason I think this will be the best time of my life. I should have my own home. I should be married. I should have children. I should have enough money to see me through. Should.

90+ years - I would have great fun pretending I were slightly mad. I'd put irons in the fridge. I'd make my 10 cats wear different hats and seat them round the table at dinner parties. I would delight in squeezing the cheeks of people younger than me. I would attempt to grow plants in people's shoes and I would make everyone refer to me as "Your Majesty".

What about you?

Trains, planes and automobiles

I like Dublin. It's scruffy, the people are nice and the money doesn't seem real (am I the only one who thinks that Euros are like Monopoly money?)

What I don't like about Dublin is the airport. I don't like it when I spend more time in the airport than in Dublin itself. I don't like it when my plane is delayed and I have to sit around for three hours with nothing to do. I don't like the uncomfortable seats. I don't like the internet stations that steal all your money. I don't like the noisy groups of teenagers who insist on standing behind me, shouting at the top of their voices. I don't like the fact you can't get a proper knife and fork to eat the (mediocre) food with.

I don't like the fact that I'm knackered today thanks to Dublin airport.

My weekend in statistics

City travelled to: Dublin
Girls on trip: 12
Hours away: 50
Hours spent in airports: 10
Hours spent in air: 2
Rooms stayed in: 2
Hangovers: 2
Bloody Marys consumed to counteract hangovers: 7
Rugby matches watched: 3
Rugby matches remembered: 0
Scotsmen met: 10 million
Passports lost: 1 (not mine)
Phones lost: 1 (again, not mine)
Average price (in Euros) per drink: 6
Things I never thought I'd see, seen: 3

Ah yes, the weekend was grand. Expensive beyond belief but grand none the less. Despite being delayed, having a plane break on us and staying in a cardboard box room with a wooden mattress I think a good time was had by all.

It was strange though, Dublin has a reputation for being a friendly city, welcoming to all. However, all members of the girlie group commented on the fact that there were a couple of periods when we felt damn uncomfortable being there.

It surprised me that people were openly hostile towards us, because we were English. If we were, say, football fans, largered up, fists at the ready, I might be able to understand it (although I would never condone violence). As it was, 12 rugby girls on a mission of fun is hardly your likely target for animosity, is it? Members of the group were called "bitches", "whores", "bloody English sluts" and a hand was even raised on one occassion.

It didn't stop us having fun of course but I just wonder where this hatred has come from or, was it always there and I have just been oblivious?

To be sure, to be sure...

... and other Irish stereotypes.

Every year, the celtic ladies of the rugby club go on a pilgrimage to foreign lands to watch the Scotland - Ireland 6 Nations game. This year, Dublin.

I will be attending as an outside observer to ensure that we don't get arrested or similar.

Any recommendations for suitable venues for a good craic welcome.

The attack of the killer ducks

Look, I know they don't look that vicious and it's also true that some (well most) aren't actually facing me but believe me when I say that these ducks were after me.

With their slightly rounded beaks and flappy feet they were formidable opponents indeed. I did what every sane person would do in my situation, I hid behind N.

And how to I come to be in the path of these blood-thirsty (surely bread-thirsty - ed) anatidaes? We took a road trip to Summmerrrrzet. It was N's birthday so, in a fit of "I'm a lovely girlfriend"-ness, I booked a night in a little hotel and bought some front row tickets to see his favourite band. Hell, any excuse to drink zzzider and talk with a funny accent.

In other thrilling news, I am hungover, again. When I say "hungover" what I really mean is that a very small person did, with malicious forethought, creep into my room and stuff cotton wool into my brain, through my exposed ear. There is nothing else that could account for this fuzzy and full feeling in my head. I very much doubt that it was the cocktail of port, champagne, gin and lager I had last night.

A grumble

You will allow me a little moan on this Friday morning.

I'm a tad hungover and I just feel like it, ok?

Now, when I pay nearly £500 for a ticket home there are a couple of things I expect...

a) a ticket
b) a drink once on board
c) something to help me while away the 8 hour flight.

Sadly when I booked a seat on "Has not known love in the Biblical sense" Airlines* I was not afforded any of these luxuries.

a) a ticket - took 2 months and 15 irate calls to customer services for them to send me through an e-ticket. Despite a confimation email saying it would take no longer than 72 hours.

b) a drink once on board - oh, don't get me wrong, you're allowed a drink. A soft drink. Order anything more and you immediately become the spawn of Satan. A lush. A drunkard. Someone that can't be trusted with a bottle of lighter fluid. They've even added their "thou shalt not drink" to the pre-flight spiel. "Welcome aboard this Goody Two Shoes* flight to Jomo Kenyatta airport, Nairobi. The emergency exits are here, here and here and by the way, if you drink alcohol on board you'll be pushed through one faster than you can say 'gin and tonic'. Have a nice flight." Bastards.

c) something to help me while away the 8 hour flight - my biggest whinge. I don't think I'm asking too much to expect a personal tv, even in economy. I think I could even demand that it showed decent films, at a time that suited me, and I wouldn't be pushing it. On Sanctimonious Airlines* however, what you actually get is a 3.5 inch screen (so, slightly bigger than a Blackberry) which shows 5 different (and rubbish) channels *at the same time*. Therefore, once your film has finished, you then have to wait another hour before all the other channels are finished before you can watch anything else. In the end I had to resort to poking the person in front of me with various implements to see if I could wake them up.

*possibly not its real name

The problems continue.

Latest text from my mother: Have been out fighting for food for all the staff. John the day askari [secruity guard] had his house burnt down this morning so am trying to get him and family to a safer place. No food, no fuel and all pretty awful. Things will get worse tomorrow with planned march by millions on nairobi. Police on shoot to kill. Not looking good at all.

In other news, N, a friend and I are in the planning stages of a Cape to Cairo type expedition. Exactly the same except some minor details - we won't be going by train and we won't be going to Cairo. Anyone know a good Toyota dealer?

Today I am mostly:

• pushing the envelope (literally) as I stuff 300 christmas cards and nurse my paper cuts
• dreaming of Kenya and the lovely weather I've just left behind
• wondering whether I've got enough Christmas presents and whether I should go out and buy more on Saturday
• cursing my generosity - what made me invite 4 people round for Sunday lunch?
• collecting people's addresses so next year I can be one of those organised people I hate and send out a load of Christmas cards - it also makes me feel a tad grown up...
• procrastinating - can you tell?

My trip away was lovely. It was cold (boy was it cold) but it was so nice to discover a new town.

I've never been to Switzerland before. On the way over in the plane I was desperately brushing up on my French, hoping against hope that I wouldn't bump into a German or Italian Swiss.

"Bonjour madame"
"Je voudrais..."
" Deux biers s'il vous plait" etc

I really could have done with our favourite translator there. Maybe I could have squeezed her into my suitcase and then dragged her around after me on a short lead. (Oh alright, I would have given her a long lead. Otherwise she'd start complaining about "lead rights" or somesuch nonsense with fellow bloggers.)

But it really was beautiful there.

The town seems to be broken in two. At the top, lovely old buildings with a real "Europe" feel about them. From the balcony of the hotel, houses and buildings sweep before you with the solid bookstop of the Alps on the horizon. At the bottom of the town it was more modern, industrial. Space age buildings holding secret conferences with each other. Vast numbers of yachts nudging each other aside sceaming "look at me! look at me! I'm the most expensive."

The people are lovely. Considering they have to pay 50 odd francs for a bottle of Swiss wine (that's about £25, fact fans) and they can only shop in a Co-op, they're suprisingly cheerful. It must be all that electricity whizzing about.

Even the robbers are polite. Tap-tapping away on the Blackberry on my way to a meeting (yes I know, how corporate of me!) I felt a nudge. I looked down to see someone's hand in my bag. "Oi" quoth I (in my "I've got an English degree don't'cha know?" way)

"Ah! Pardon madame!" (I'm a "mademoiselle" actually monsieur) and with that he gave me a shifty look and hopped off the bus. Très charmant!