I’ve been a bad little blogger again. The excuse this time is that I’ve spend all my ‘spare’ time lately packing or at least trying to figure out how to conform with the latest baggage restrictions while fitting all our bags in the car to get to the airport.
We’re off to the sun tomorrow as they say; well not the Sun of course but a place where the Sun actually shines and generates heat on the flesh, or in this case the post-partum cellulite. I’m sure though I’ll manage to pick up a cheap, butt-concealing sarong as soon as we get there and as I plan to clench and unclench my buttocks throughout the six-hour flight I may arrive in Gran Canaria with a miraculous butt-lift. Oh dear the holiday excitement is making me silly. Of course I won’t have time to remember to clench my buttocks or do last minute bicep curls using my 7.23 kg baby as weight as I’ll be too busy playing referee to my girls, explaining that the lady up at the front doesn’t want to hear how much candy they think they should get for sitting quietly, while clenching my jaw in a tight smile reasoning that of course my husband deserves to sleep through the whole hoopla so he’ll be nice and rested, ready to drive, when we arrive. Yes, I think I’ll land in Las Palmas with a massive headache, swollen ankles, sore nipples and a over-clenched jaw. Still at least I’ll feel the sun on my aching face.
I really don’t have time to write this as I’ve three bathrooms to clean, acres of floor to vacuum and snacks/bribery to prepare for the journey which starts at 4 AM tomorrow morning. What was I thinking when I booked the flights at such an ungodly hour back in September? I obviously wasn’t.
A final word to any burglars who may be reading. We don’t have a flat screen TV or any fancy stereo equipment. I’m taking the camera with me and the computers are really not worth taking. I am however, for once, leaving behind the kitchen sink (and clean toilets) if you're interested. Darn baggage restrictions.
We’re off to the sun tomorrow as they say; well not the Sun of course but a place where the Sun actually shines and generates heat on the flesh, or in this case the post-partum cellulite. I’m sure though I’ll manage to pick up a cheap, butt-concealing sarong as soon as we get there and as I plan to clench and unclench my buttocks throughout the six-hour flight I may arrive in Gran Canaria with a miraculous butt-lift. Oh dear the holiday excitement is making me silly. Of course I won’t have time to remember to clench my buttocks or do last minute bicep curls using my 7.23 kg baby as weight as I’ll be too busy playing referee to my girls, explaining that the lady up at the front doesn’t want to hear how much candy they think they should get for sitting quietly, while clenching my jaw in a tight smile reasoning that of course my husband deserves to sleep through the whole hoopla so he’ll be nice and rested, ready to drive, when we arrive. Yes, I think I’ll land in Las Palmas with a massive headache, swollen ankles, sore nipples and a over-clenched jaw. Still at least I’ll feel the sun on my aching face.
I really don’t have time to write this as I’ve three bathrooms to clean, acres of floor to vacuum and snacks/bribery to prepare for the journey which starts at 4 AM tomorrow morning. What was I thinking when I booked the flights at such an ungodly hour back in September? I obviously wasn’t.
A final word to any burglars who may be reading. We don’t have a flat screen TV or any fancy stereo equipment. I’m taking the camera with me and the computers are really not worth taking. I am however, for once, leaving behind the kitchen sink (and clean toilets) if you're interested. Darn baggage restrictions.
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