Anne Dickens | The Day After Yesterday

It was my first morning in Cyprus, and I had nearly died from hypothermia during the night. My extremities were blue and everything. That's what happens when you get greedy with the Air Con. Just imagine how embarrassing that would have been - dying from cold on a tropical island. It's almost as embarrassing as being run over by a wheelchair.

Anyway, I was rudely awakened by a loud banging on the door of my apartment. I opened it and was greeted firstly by a whoosh of hot air, and secondly by a small child launching herself at me like an Exocet.

"Mum, you've come!" shouted Izzy with her arms clasped around my neck and her legs dangling around my knees. [Just so you know: Izzy and her Dad, Steve, had arrived in Cyprus four days before me, and were staying in an apartment belonging to Steve's Dad (Paul) and Step-mum (Sue)]. 

That's the nice thing about children and dogs; they are always pleased to see you, even if you feed them food from packets. 

"Yep, I'm here, and we have a whole 10 days to have fun," I grinned at her. 

She released her grip from my neck and said, "you are really cold."

"I've got hypothermia," I informed her, gravely.

"What's that?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"It's means that I am suffering from extreme cold," I said. 

"But it's really hot in Cyprus," she replied, looking bemused.

"That's why today, I am mainly being ironic," I told her.

"What's ironic?" she asked. Sacre-bloody-bleu. I thought that kids should be seen and not heard.

"Never mind that, let's go over to your apartment and say hello to everyone," I replied, deftly changing the subject.

As we headed out, I was wafted by the heat for a second time. In the Cyprus summertime, temperatures constantly hover around 31 degrees Celcius (88 degrees Fahrenheit). But on a related, but separate note, I am always amazed by the fact that water boils at 100 degrees C. How much of a handy coincidence is that?

Anyway, I digress. Izzy took me round to her Grandparent's apartment and opened the door to let us both in. 


After a couple of seconds, they looked up, and saw me standing there.

Sue stood up, grinned, and gave me a hug, whilst Paul shouted in a Brummy accent; "Yow are berluddy late for breakfast!"

And so things were back to normal, albeit in a different country (they had moved to Cyprus from the UK 10 months previously).

Paul and Sue liked a healthy diet, and for breakfast they served up some birdseed-type food (which I later found out was called 'muesli') with yoghurt dolloped on the top.

After chewing for 30 jaw-aching minutes, I finally saw the end in sight.

"What are the sweet bits in it?" I asked regarding my bowl with suspicion.

"Dried fruit," replied Sue.

"Yeh, I thought I could taste vitamins," I said grimacing, "can I just have the muesli on it's own tomorrow? Or maybe a bacon sandwich?" I added tentatively.

"I'll leave the fruit off tomorrow then," stated Sue, ignoring the bacon bit.

I decided to rapidly change the subject after realising that bacon was the elephant in the room (even though I saw Steve dribble a little bit at the mere mention).

"What's the plan today then?" I asked cheerily.

"We're taking it easy because it's your first day," said Paul, "so it'll be the swimming pool this morning and the beach this afternoon."

And because I am kinder than Mother Theresa, except that I have more tailored clothes, I have got some pictures for you .....................



















So dahlink, that was my first day of Cyprus. It was bloody marvellous, but if I could change one thing, I would not have sand involved. It's the devil's spawn. I don't believe that being gritty is natural.

There is more to come on the holidays, but in the meantime, I am going to grab a glass of Bolly and listen to what you have been doing this weekend ...... fire away my lovely ..............!

Greetings dahlink. You would be forgiven if you cried out; "Where the blazes have you been?"

It's simple. Last week I bombed off on holiday, primarily because I haven't had one for a couple of months and secondly because I am like a delicate flower who would perish if I worked too hard without a break. I am a bit like Paris Hilton in that respect, except that I don't have that weird squinty eye thing going on.

My destination was Cyprus, a little island close to ...... well actually, I wasn't sure where it was close to because I am crap at geography. I had to look it up on a map and discovered that it was startlingly close to Iraq, Iran and Syria. Not that it put me off mind you, in the past I have discovered that holiday destinations near to warzones are often quite economical. Like Cambodia for example; lovely place as long as you avoid the landmines, but that's another post.


Why Cyprus you might ask? Well, Steve's parents live there, and he was taking Izzy over there to visit and asked if I wanted to join them.

"Sounds good," I said to him, "but what's the catch?"

"You'll have to sleep on the sofa," he replied.

"Bugger off, do I look like the type of lady to bunk on someone's sofa?"

"No, I suppose not," he said, "but what are you going to do instead?"

"I shall procure myself an apartment for the duration," I announced.

I made a quick Skype call to Steve's Father, and quickly determined that there was an apartment available for rent in the same block as theirs. Job done. Sometimes I am as resourceful as James Bond except that I don't have a lighter that turns into a zipwire.
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Not long afterwards, the day of my flight arrived. Huzzar to the power 10! The trip to Gatwick airport was a bit hairy due to the fact that I had set off late, and to compound matters, there were long delays on the M40. Sacre bleu. But you will be pleased to hear that after a mad dash down the back roads, I arrived with a full 15 minutes to go before the bag-drop counter closed.

My hide was saved because a few days beforehand, I had decided to try a 'meet and greet' parking service. Bascially, you drive your car to the departures terminal at the airport, and a chap with a uniform picks it and takes it away to park it for you. I felt like a movie star except that I hadn't done a sex tape. 

And because I am kinder than Mother Theresa but without the facial hair, I have got some pictures for you .........











Anyway dahlink, that is all for now ...... more Cyprus exploits to come. That's if I ever have a wi-fi signal long enough to publish anything. If I do, I will eat Ghandi's flip flop.

What have you got planned for the summer holidays? Pray do tell ..........

I got asked a bloody good question today by Veronica from 'OF MICE and raMEN'. By a 'good question' I mean one that I couldn't answer off the top of my head.

The question was: 'Why is the British Olympic team called Team GB and not Team UK?'

And there was very good reason why I couldn't answer the question immediately; it's because I got an 'U' (stands for unclassified, which is worse than a Fail) in my geography and history exams at school. I couldn't see the point in learning about 'old stuff', and 'where places were'.

As you can imagine, I was subsequently very relieved when Sat Navs were invented. But I still remain resolutely disinterested in 'old stuff', and I never watch 'Time Team' much to the chagrin of one of my best chums who is a History teacher.

Anyway, I digress. I had to do a bit of research, but what I found was quite interesting. But if you already know the answer, I have included this picture of Jessica Ennis for you to splodge over instead of reading on.


Strap yourself in ........ basically, the full name of our nation is 'The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland'.

The 'United Kingdom' bit refers to the political union of England, Northern Ireland, Wales and Scotland.

The 'Great Britain' bit, is a geographical term that refers to the largest island within a group comprising the 'British Isles'. 


So as you can see from looking at the picture above, Great Britain being the biggest island in the British Isles, comprises three separate (but united) countries: England, Wales and Scotland.

But now we reach the crux of the matter. After seeing the above, you would be forgiven for assuming that Team GB only included England, Scotland and Wales. But it doesn't. It also includes Irish athletes.




So dahlink ..... what did you get up to last weekend?

P.S. Did you know the difference between the UK and GB ...... fess up now!

It's been a bit exciting in the UK this year. First there was the Queen's diamond jubilee celebrations, then there was the Euro 2012 football tournament (although England were pants), and if that wasn't enough to make you blow chunks with excitement, London is hosting the Olympic games this year.

Yep, in just a few weeks, London will be awash with a plethora of finely honed athletes jogging all over the place, clad in skin-tight lycra. But I will be in Oxford. Arse. My sense of pain is tangible - like standing on a plug with bare feet. 

I would have liked to have attended some of the Olympic events because it's like a school sport's day (and I like them), except bigger, and without the 'egg and spoon' race. But tickets were virtually impossible to procure because they had all been allocated to dodgy MPs and corporations with lots of wonga.

Not that I actually tried too hard to get tickets, mind. Knowing my luck, I would probably have ended up watching endurance synchronised swimming or darts (how can that be a sport when the competitors have beer bellies?).

Just as I was consigning the Olympic games to snatched snippets on the TV, suddenly an opportunity arose to get involved .... albeit in a small way. It turned out that the Olympic torch was touring the UK before arriving at the Olympic stadium. And the route was passing through Oxford.

"Izzy," I said, "would you like to see the Olympic torch, it's a once in a lifetime opportunity."

"What's a lifetime?" she asked staring at me intently. Sacre bleu.

"It's the amount of time you are alive before you die," I said.

"I don't want to die," Izzy replied, wide-eyed.

"Look, you are not going to die," I said in an exasperated fashion, "but do you want to see the bloody Olympic torch or not?"

"Don't say bloody, it's swearing," she pointed out.

"Sorry, do you want to see the lovely Olympic torch?" I asked with a Wallace and Gromit grin.

"Yes please," she said, grinning back.

So at 5.15pm on Monday, we drove into Oxford towards the route of the Olympic torch. The closer we got to the official route, the more we noticed that the roads were jammed with the parked cars of other spectators. Crikey, loads of people had turned up to watch the Olympic torch! That's patriotic that is. It made me want to sing the National Anthem but I didn't because people would stare.

Luckily we found a parking space in the Lidl carpark right next to the action (because I am raggy like that), and it wasn't long before we met up with Steve (Izzy's dad) who had decided to join us. And because I am kinder than Mother Theresa, except that I don't like kittens, I have got some pictures for you ....... enjoy ......................













Watching all those people doing athleticky type things had made me feel hungry, so I suggested to Steve that we take Izzy to a local Nepalese restaurant for dinner. I hadn't tried it before, and even better, it meant I could avoid having to cook something in my kitchen.





So was the food good? Well yes, it was above average; tasty and a bit different. But the downside was that the bill came to £68.00 ($109.00). Holy Mary Mother of God! It was a lot on the high side for an impromptu evening out ..... which, I suspect, is the reason that the restaurant remained mainly empty for the duration we were there. It's a shame because I would probably have gone back there ........

Anyway dahlink, enough of me ..... what have you been up to this week, and are you doing anything Olympic over the next couple of weeks?