Dog eat dog...

As you all know by now, I am a very keen on Pilates, so when one of the hotel entertainment team came round yesterday telling us that there would be yoga (they pronounced it Joga, but I am assured that it is the same) I jumped at it, and told the girl that I would be there at 10.30 to do it.  Daughter number two offered to do it with me, so I was quite looking forward to a bit of mum/daughter bonding.

However...

On Monday night, the kids suggested that a night into Ibiza Town might be a good idea, so we had our dinner, danced like crazy things to a better than average funk band and headed off in a taxi to the fleshpots of Ibiza's capital.

The town was beautiful, and fill of people wearing outfits which came with health warnings such as:

This will chafe

This will not cover any of your vital organs

This will make you sweat

This will catch fire if left in the sun too long

Needless to say, I assumed that I would feel very old amongst the young and beautiful, but a couple of tramps on a bench put pay to that, and we went into the first bar we came too (opposite Michael Kors' yacht which is worth £280m in case you're interested)

The bar menu had no prices.  Now as we all know, this is not a good sign, but notwithstanding that, the six of us proceeded to order the most glamourous drinks we could see (I had a frozen banana Daiquiri which rendered me useless for the rest of the night) and we sat there for a couple of hours watching the world and his trophy girlfriend wander by.

When the time came to leave, we asked for the bill.  It came to 92 euros.  The husband may stop talking about this by about Thursday, but as I see it, paying that to sit for two hours outside Michael Kors' yacht (£280m - did I say?) on the off chance that he might spot daughter number two lounging on a white leatherette sofa in her New Look dress was money well spent.

Only four of us came home.  Daughter number two and son number two headed to Pacha for the weekly FlowerPower Club night.  This was music from the 60's. 70's and 80's and 24 hours on, I am kicking myself for not going.

So back to the yoga/joga.  I was ready at 10.30 to start.  Unfortunately, neither of the girls was up to joining me. Daughter number one was more interested in tanning her already creosote skin a couple of shades darker, and daughter number two was still in bed, having only got home three hours earlier.

So it was just me...

A 53 year old, sweating, overweight woman wearing a bikini (because she never thought for one moment to pack her pilates pants) on a stage with the teacher, all alone (literally all alone as no one else turned up) except for a couple reading their newspaper who looked up every now and again for a smirk.

When I bent down to do a rather reluctant Downward Dog, I'm sure the husband choked on his cappuccino...