Saturday, 4 August 2012

Minutes in Monaco

It’s cloudless azure day in Monaco and I lie baking beneath the mid-afternoon sun. My nephew is driving toy lorries across my back. However, I’m too engrossed in the spectacle at the adjacent sun lounger to threaten no candy after dinner.

A few paces away, a balding blubbery Russian in his mid 50s sits leering at a gaggle of blondes; all young, slender and in possession of that peculiar cast of utterly forgettable beauty. Clocking their portly admirer, the girls can’t help but assume the sort of syrupy contrived manner that invites men to action.

And Boris (I decided he deserved a name) does not disappoint with  Dom Perignon and a sheepish “it’s my first time” smile.

Dollar signs flash in lettuce green eyes. The girls return his smile in a coy if slightly riga mortis way. The only person who’s genuinely beaming is the one who wont be partaking in the frivolity.

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Yet, my contented voyeurism is interrupted by my phone. A close friend, Mr. Diddles (not his real name) is calling. Now I had specifically instructed Mr. Diddles not to contact me on holiday.

Murphy’s law that the moment my slutty iphone feels the exotic caress of a foreign carrier pesky ex-boyfriends, long lost aunts, debt collecters and prank callers rear their ugly heads. And when it’s not them, it’s the rest of the British nation. Like the voting lines of X Factor on a Saturday night. But no winners here. Just me. Shaking my head in disbelief over a four figure bill.


“Ring”. Reject.
“Rinnnng”. Reject.
“Rinnnnnnng”. “Stop calling me” I message.
“Skype me, I need to talk to you” comes the instant response.

Oh no.  What could it be I wondered. The only sure-fire way to induce stress in me is to tell me you need to talk to me. What had I done?

Whatever it was, I needed to formulate a response. “Shut up Diddles. I’ve been nothing but a loyal friend to you. I know that. You know that. God knows that. I’ve kept your every dirty secret- even the one about your  mum’s foot fetish. So don’t you turn this around on me.

Just as I'm struggling into my kaftan, Boris walks over to the blondes. I mutter denunciations under my breath as I rise to walk to my room to discover what I've done..


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11 comments:

  1. i didn't understand this at all?? what did "mr.diddles" want?

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  2. You write really well and your photos are beautiful. X

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  3. Ahhh don't leave us hanging there! :P

    This is my first comment on here, but I have been reading your blog for quite a while now - you write SO beautifully! xxx

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    1. That's really the nicest thing you could say :) Thank u - thank u!! xxx

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  4. Amazing post! And yes, you have quite fascinating writing style.

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  5. Haha dangit you left me hanging there!
    I just started reading your blog and it's gorgeous! Makes me quite jealous of all your adventures when I'm way over here in Southern California.
    Anyway, just wanted to say thanks for such a lovely blog to read while I sip my coffee and pretend to be "working"! Ha!

    -NICOLE

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    1. Hey Nicole, Southern California? Living the dream :D btw ur peach tequila mini pie- OH MY GOD

      xxxx

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    2. OK, well there could be worse places I guess haha.

      I'm so glad you like them! I mean, who says a seemingly-sweet pie can't be a little bit naughty too? ;)

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