Caribbean Queen...

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I'm not too sure where to start....

The husband and I whisked ourselves off for a rather impromptu week in the Caribbean ten days ago.  Before you start thinking that I live the life of some rich jet-setter, I should point out that this was our first holiday away without kids or dogs for over twelve years.  We had been seeing adverts for St Lucia all over the television through January and February, and the husband, who is forever sensitive to my needs, suggested that a week away might be a jolly good idea.  Well who was I to argue, ladies?

We had a wonderful week, in perfect sunshine, surrounded by beautiful smiling faces which did our frazzled old bodies the world of good.  The Caribbean folk are just so open, and wanted nothing more than a smile from you.  The husband's favourite part of the day was the buffet breakfast.  This was an opportunity to try things he'd never even seen before (breadfruit) and by the second morning, he had earned the nickname of Phileas Fogg as he circumnavigated the world (the dining room) in the eight days we were there.

We met a lovely American couple, bonding over a crash in a beach buggy and a large bottle of dubious home-brew rum known as 'Babymaker' on the island.  Now at my age, there's no chance of any baby making, but after the effect it had on me that night and the following morning, perhaps it should be renamed as ''Enema of The State'.  On the plus side, Wednesday's bikini muffin top was history by Thursday lunchtime...

So a lovely week in paradise, where the love of my life and I remembered why we adore each other so much.  (He always offers to do my sun-cream where I can't reach, even though he hates every moment, and I keep him in beer).  

And then we came home...

What on earth happened while my back was turned then?  Twenty four hours after stepping off a plane into a deserted airport, I was sent back home with a laptop for twelve weeks.  I'd never considered myself high risk to anyone, but obviously my knackered old lungs are more dangerous than I thought.  

I've never worked from home, and getting up this morning knowing that I wouldn't be going in was a strange old affair.  No fancy clothes needed (which was just as well as the decorator had taped up my wardrobe yesterday) and definitely no make up.  Now this is all very well, but I am slightly worried about the fact that I won't be going to my regular sessions with Mrs H (the beauty salon miracle worker) or my lovely root toucher upper.  

By week six, I should imagine that I am going to be looking like a hairy, wrinkled old badger, and some home plucking, dyeing, face-packing and filing will be on the cards.  Week twelve will see the husband coming home and wondering who the Bag Lady is that he is sharing a home with.

And then there's sex..

'Does this mean that I can't come anywhere near you now?' asked the husband with a suggestive rise of one eyebrow.

My reply was something along the lines that he had to keep his distance.

His response?  'So the door is closed then?'

'Well my love', I said, 'it depends how loudly you knock I suppose'..


 

 

 




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