First world problems

I am sorry to say that I am coming to you live from the outdoor sofa of our villa in Ibiza. A good part of this afternoon was spent lounging on a beach bed ordering white sangria (who knew that such a joyful drink existed?) and dipping in and out of the ocean pretending that my bottom looked EXACTLY like the Brazilian teenager’s on the beach bed in front of me – it doesn’t, which is quite shattering. There have been some other significant downsides to the holiday thus far:

• The supermarket was closed tonight on our way home from the beach. We had to settle for pizzas from the local pizzeria up the road. Which meant no cleaning up which I really enjoy on holiday.
• Son has a puncture in his floatie. Spending a fair bit of time swimming in circles as a result. Doesn’t seem to notice which is a little worrying.
• Due to lack of willingness on my part to spend a lot of time cooking, baby daughter has had same thing to eat for three days in a row and surprisingly still seems unkeen on couscous with steamed broccoli. Fusspot.
• They ran out of fresh limes at the roadside stall forcing us to drink our beers with lemon instead. A possibly capital punishment inducing crime.
• I still have two children – too many of aforementioned beers in the evening means a lot of pretending to be interested in lizards on rocks, and a lot more keep-quiet-icecream than is possibly recommended by Gina. Although am sure ice cream is the bottom part of the holiday food pyramid.
• Being in Spain means enduring long earnest conversations between men about the World Cup. I don’t speak Spanish, but having heard these conversations in English about every other sport for the past thirty six odd years, I reckon I could translate anyway.
• Seawater and heat plus lack of super hairdryer = hair which starts off the evening looking tousled and beachy and in ensuing hours gets bigger and bigger until closely resembling Oprah’s pre-90s do and blocking view of people at tables nearby.
• I missed seeing Kylie at trendy beach bar by hours. Had I have run into her, she would have befriended me as like-minded groovy Aussie, offered me use of her maxi yacht, provided me with a nanny and liposuction specialist, thus rendering bottom indeed just like Brazilian teenagers. But I missed her.

I’m clutching at straws. I may never come home. Viva España.

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