The Thailand Journal - Part one - Pancakes

3/11/11

Ginger Beard says you can never be too sanitized. He is carrying round a travel sized sanitizer and using it every 5-10 minutes. He insists that I receive sanitation before we hold hands. He has many cuts on his face from shaving, and as such, is not at his aesthetic optimum. This makes me question our relationship. What am I doing with someone addicted to sanitiser who can't shave?

5/11/11

Determined to get my money's worth, I get stuck in straight away with the in-flight movies. If I'm smart, I can fit in 12. It would cost approximately £96 to see these at the cinema, and as such, is definitely worth the effort. Cue the worst turbulence I've ever experienced. Ginger makes it 6 minutes into Harry Potter (not literally, don't be vile), before turning yellow. But I am fricking staying the course! If I stop the film for a bit, I might only have room for 11 films! Eventually the stewardesses came round, and gave us some proper dodge food. I didn't eat it because I felt so, ridiculously sick. It's quite frustrating that so many scenes in Harry Potter are at night, because you can't see dark things on those tiny, shit screens. But I got the gist.

Eight hours later, Dubai Airport. I'm having to run to the toilets a lot for a good old dry vomiting session, but I did fulfil my film quota. And it's important to get your priorities right. I threw up just before take off, in one of those darling plane cubicles. A nice Thai lady told me I should drink Ginger Beer, but she didn't understand that this was a price I was willing to pay, and that I had already raked back £24.

I was unconscious for the next seven hours, only waking to wipe my drool away. On Emirates planes, when they want you to wake up, they put all the lights on, and play some man singing about what a beautiful day it is. It's not a beautiful day. Quite frankly it's complete wank, and 10pm, and you've woken me up to give me minced chicken with a slab of cheddar on it's face. Thanks.

Arrive in Bangkok. What a glorious start to the holiday. Let some people take us to an over-priced hotel. Think am hallucinating, but the taxis here are actually bright pink. A young boy carries our bags to the room, and shows me where the hairdryer is. Don't know what to tip. Do not understand currency. Awkward. Fall asleep. Wake up at 4am. Third plane to catch. Why did not pick Butlins? Can suddenly see the many merits of a Butlins holiday. Crave camp entertainers, pissed-in pool, and feral kids.

Realise Bangkok Airport looks like the Turd on the Tyne (Newcastle's Art Gallery). Weird. Sit on plane, eat cashew nuts. Do not desire to live anymore. Find it amusing that people jealous of our holiday. Nothing to be jealous of.

Taxi to the resort is 1:30. BUT the driver has a screen at the front of the car. Am still game for squashing in as many movies as possible. He doesn't ask, but puts on Micheal Jackson Live. Is lots of crying girls being restrained. Do not understand entertainment value.

Arrive at Talkoo Beach Resort, a child drives us to our room in a golf buggy. Why are these children not in school? Are obviously learning how to identify hairdryers and drive, through employment, but is not same as proper education.

No one else is here. Just me, Ginger and stray dogs. In our local Newsagents (One woman, a fridge with some milk in, and a freezer full of cornettos) there is a crazy amount of kittens. Ginger says I can't touch them because I'll contract rabies and die. It's a real shitter. They're sleeping amongst the merchandise, and I'd be happy to spend the rest of our vacation here. No dice.

Thai people here don't speak any English. You don't tend to get the food you order, but we try to enjoy the surprise. They're also very clever, and make you think they can understand you, by repeating what you say.

Me: Can I please order a taxi for tomorrow morning?
Reception: Taxi
Me: Yes, for 10am if that's okay?
Reception: 10.
Me: Good, so is that booked?
Reception: Booked.

And then you rock up at 10am, there's no taxi, and you nearly miss the ferry. But it's all part of the EXPERIENCE kids.

We went off to hunt some pink dolphins with a man, and his mate. I learned pretty quickly that nothing would make sense, nothing will be explained, and that's got to be just dandy. Which is why we drive around for a bit, head back, swap drivers, set off. The whole time they're having an animated, hilarious conversation.

So we get in this boat with a Thai couple, and chase this one bumpy dolphin. And these special jumping, silver fish are flying beside the boat, and every now and again, one slaps you in the face. It's a wholly pleasant experience. The woman put one hand on top of the other over and over again, and said 'Pancakes.' Fantastic, a day out at sea, followed by pancakes. Turns out she was talking about the rock formations. And this is why language barriers are harming people everywhere. Because I don't know if you've ever thought you were going to get pancakes, and had those hypothetical pancakes ripped away, but it's fucking upsetting

Have you packed your own bags?

The stages of life with a Laptop Backpack (soon to me made into an animated feature film, coming to cinemas near you).

Stage one: Receive said bag. Phone father. Issue forth bag, and subsequent laptop as proof of succeeding in life. Point out array of compartments. Talk at length on necessity of travel. Establish self as that woman on the train, typing, drinking coffee, being important. Try to brush off chip from shoulder re crap, waste of time degree. Have made it. Smug, smug smug.

Stage two: Realise that cannot fully wear backpack as intended, as will not look cool. Must look cool at all times, in order to retain self-imposed idea of high status. Use one strap only, off right arm. Have handbag on left arm. Strut back and forth to station. Look very cool indeed.

Stage three: Slight issue with shoulder and back pain. Newly attained status is very heavy. Glare at laptop when not on back in bag, resent lap top. Cannot be that woman on the train, as hardly ever get seat. When do get seat, get seat next to smelly man, crying baby, old woman with too many bags. Experience severe travel sickness when trying to work on train.

Stage four: Recall previous battle with high heels as very similar. Convinced self could wear high heals for years. Drunkenly hobbled around city, fell down stairs, whinged, but wanted to be like other, normal girls and glamorous. Gave in. Bought flats. Now live in boots. Give in, now wear backpack fully. Do not look remotely cool. Do not even look geek chic. Is particularly fetching when matched with pencil skirt. Hate back pack. Hate laptop. Have not excelled in career, have gone backwards. Have started writing like Bridget Jones, and knocking people unconscious when turning round in small spaces.

To note: Do not have a lengthy meeting about appearing professional, go and visit your colleagues, sit on a table, and allow that table to collapse. Is not a good look, and combined with full on backpack, is very damaging to street cred.

Shitty Shitty Bang Bang

This just in - food poisoning is hilarious, more so when the realisation hits you in Debenhams.

Three weeks until Thailand! Now, I really can't stand it when people brag about their impending holidays on Facebook, so I'll just say this - It's gonna be frickin awesome, and you can't go, and I'm going, and you're not. Sucks.

On the bright side, you may very well avoid a painful death. There are numerous ways to die in Thailand, and many of them very common. Unfortunately I want to grab adventure by its inflated testicles, and so may encounter such an end. I'm hoping for a drugged tiger, not as drugged as previously thought, escaping and mauling me.

Also, you'll save a lot of money by not stocking up on immodium (unless you suffer from extreme diarrhoea without the help of a dodgy curry). We have many, many boxes of this, and they're not cheap. So much so, that I'm going to pop the bastards out, and put them in a personal Gemma bag. Then I'm going to replace them with Ibuprofen and glue the foil back down.

Ginger Bead won't notice because Ginger Beard is an underdeveloped monkey.

One of us is going to have a really great time in Thailand, and one of us is going to have an uphill battle with the shits.

Luckily for you guys, we'll both be keeping a travel journal during the trip, some of which I'll try to type up whilst there (if I can get away from that tiger). I've offered to share my blog temporarily with Ginger, but I think he wants to keep his thoughts about 'life stuck to the toilet', 'wearing socks with sandals', and how annoyed he is about the incredible amount of money I've spent on hotels, private.

My travel journal will map his bowel movements, purely for entertainment purposes. I'll also be covering the estimated temperature, taking photos of bowls of nicely arranged rice, and commenting on how I like, really feel about stuff.

Gymtastic

So I went to the gym last night (I know, I know you can't improve on perfection), and I was attacked, that's right, attacked, by the ghost of Michael Jackson.

Firstly, I'll set the scene. The gym at work is in the basement. It is a place set up purely as a murder location. There is a box of white chalk ready for CSI. There's hardly ever anyone there but me. Which makes me really angry when anyone does think of turning up. It's pretty much my private gym, so stay out of my private gym you bastard!

In my own, private gym , if you want to run on a treadmill, you run at the wall. It's very nice. You have to jerk your neck around every five minutes to make sure you're not about to be murdered, because it could happen at any time. There's a lot of old, dusty machines, the whir of the air con, and you, practically murdered.

So, I went into the changing room last night, and there was a pile of ladies clothes, and some neatly folded pants. I was like, 'Who the frick is using my gym, and why have they removed their pants?!' I got ready, and walked into the gym. There was no one in the gym! Theory one - Shape shifter. (Documentaries like True Blood show that Shape shifters remove their clothes before shifting). Theory two - Invisible woman. No other theories at present time.

I was having an enjoyable bike ride, when 15mins in, all the lights go off. Complete darkness. And what song comes on at that exact second? I'll tell you - it was a Michael Jackson song. I pretended that everything would be okay, and continued to pedal. But then I realise, that even beyond the desperate plea of the room, I was now, technically requesting to be murdered.

Adding insult to injury, many people came in and out of the changing room (which I could only hear). Now, they are either having a quiet shit in the toilet of MY PRIVATE GYM, which means they are all dirty, shitty scum. Or, they are playing clothes swap. If it's the latter, whose clothes does the first woman wear? I was also very concerned that they thought my clothes were involved. Luckily, this was not the case.

I did some very stressful sit ups, and after each one, sprawled out on the carpet exhausted. I kept adjusting my shorts. And I sang along to a lot of Brit-ney. I then realised, after three weeks of this ritual, there are security cameras. Security have always been very friendly to me. Now, I know why.

I am currently developing a new, organic language for everyone. These words have very naturally occurred in conversations and you may utilise them:

Minggyner (pron Ming-gyn-er) (Meaning - that is disgusting)
Use: That is minggyner!

Minggyne (pron Ming-gyne) (Meaning - that's worse than disgusting)
Use: That is 100% minggyne

Piscuit (pron Piss-kit) (Can only be used in phrase: That takes the piscuit! Something which takes the piss, and also the biscuit.

Horrendie (pron whore-end-I) (Meaning - totally horrendous)
Use: What you're wearing is horrendie!

Thanks for listening.

Can you say 'Ahhhh'?

This week, I decided to let a dentist prod me in the mouth several times. And as that sounds horrendously inappropriate, I'll put it another way: I went to the dentist. Did I anticipate getting mowed down by a little boy on a tricycle? No, I didn't. Why was he on the pavement? There are cycle lanes now. Pop a fluorescent jacket on him, and sit him on the yellow line.

I'm joking. But I'm completely serious.

Regardless of your age, you renegade cyclists, my feet are not yours for the crushing. Do I drive my car on the pavement? Well, yes, but only by accident. And what I saw in that little boys eyes was not only total disregard for my safety and personal well being, but also cold, hard intent. Age 7 and already a complete bastard.

Ginger Beard has informed me that you have to pay for x-rays at the Dentists. I didn't. I just walked out. Is that so wrong? No one tackled me to the floor, so hopefully I'll get off with a strongly worded letter - which being British myself, I would obviously appreciate.

Dentists love their special jargon. You open your mouth, and they tap round it muttering, 'A32, 6P, 7X7.' It's like battleship, only with no opponent, and no ships, and like, plastic thing with holes and pegs. Only mine went like this, '6% of 8, upper 32, missing'. Missing? Everything was intact when I arrived. But suddenly I'm lying back, staring at a Simpson's poster on the ceiling, lacking an important part. Missing I understand. Missing suggests the notable absence  of something which really should be there.

No choice with the x-ray. I'm having one. Very assertive these men with their bleached white jackets. So I sit in the waiting room for 5-10 reading Country Living (ditsy prints are still very 'in'). Then we look at a charming picture where I'm all skeletal. My bones 'n' shit are in order, but do I want a £220 gum guard? I say I'll think about it. I won't think about it. I will fake a rather beige interest in the idea, due in part to the manners instilled in me as a middle-class child. Thank you Mum. I will peer inquisitively at the price and arrange my eyebrows in a thoughful fashion. I will then, vacate the premises without paying and get hit by a tricycle hooligan.

Fit, and don't you know it.

Hello my darlings!

Did you miss me?

I do apologise for the delay in posts. I've changed jobs, spent numerous hours cutting back my tash, and even washed my hair.

In way of apology, I've got a right belter for you. In order to use the gym at my new office, you first need to prove that you won't die if unsupervised. In other words, are you so overweight that at any moment, you may collapse?

I strolled into this 'Fitness Assessment' fearing the worst. I'd not been to the gym in a few months because of a cough. It's astounding how much you can drag out one excuse.

Month one: 'I do want to go, but I can't breathe properly.'

Month two: 'I'm not quite tip top. I don't want to rush the healing process.'

Month three: I'm not 100%. I'm about 64%, and this is not a percentage I can take with me to the gymnasium.'

Ginger Beard accepted them all, and let me stay at home with the crisps. Unfortunately, the crisps stayed with me, on my stomach.

So, here I am, ready, prepared, doing squats in the lift. I blow into a pipe a few times (yes, still part of the assessment), run with a heart monitor on, stretch, and generally try to prove that I am nimble and young.

I later receive the results. Now, I was expecting to be a tad off the mark in a few areas. But rather hilariously (I've had a good chuckle), it turns out I'm a mess.

His summary is that I have too much body fat, need to go on a diet, and have poor flexibility and stamina. To reiterate, page two, 'KEEP YOUR WEIGHT IN CHECK!'

It's okay, I still have some self esteem left. It's hiding under a rock in the garden.

'Great lung capacity.' Woop Woop!

'Not using very much of lung capacity.' Gutted.

(Brief pause to eat sandwich. Realise for second time this week food made by Ginger tastes like Mr Muscle as he has sprayed chopping board. Go buy lunch. Yell at Ginger who has eaten his own poisoned sandwich).

It's alright, my blood pressure is below average! Oh wait, my stretching capabilities are non existent.

I did not go home, and have a brief, yet satisfying cry. And I definitely did not eat out five times last week.

If you need me, I'll be on a treadmill.

Peace and Love xxx

Doctor Jones, Doctor Jones......

Today, I travelled by train, due to having no other, feasible option. In hindsight, perhaps walking in, plagued by blisters, lack of footpaths, and renegade cyclists, would've been nicer.

Well, to be fair, it does make my top five in the pleasant experiences with National Rail list. So much so, that as I walked underneath the puppy billboard, I even managed to relax my hands (tight balls of anger as standard), concentrate on the path ahead (glaring at devilish advertisement and walk into commuter as standard) AND think happy thoughts (death threats to artist as standard).

But as you've hopefully come to expect from me, I do have a gripe. And my gripe (if the word can be wielded in such a fashion) is with Doctors. I remember a time, albeit coated in the fuzzy paint of childhood nostalgia, when I had one Doctor, one nice, fatherly looking Doctor, who pandered to my every complaint. A Doctor, who managed to feign warmth, concern, and having all the time in the world. There was magic cream which would take the pain away, sensible jumpers, clean white coats, and a prompt prescription.

Oh the times they are a changing! Now, you sit, with an embarrassing copy of heat, reading about the woman who gave birth to herself. After you've signed yourself in to a Doctor you've never had. This assignment appears to operate on a kind of pot luck system. There are roughly twelve Doctors at my medical practice, and I rarely see the same one twice. Which is great. Because I'd hate a friendly rapport and familiarity to develop. I'd hate to be genuinely comfortable to discuss the tail developing at the end of my spine/inability to urinate/blindness in one eye with one person. Instead, a myriad of strangers partake in the the bizarre state of my health.

So there you are, jumping out of your skin, as the pixel board above orders each of you in turn to your Doctor, with a needle-sharp ping. Thirty minutes later than expected, it's your go. Now, here's where the fun begins. The practice in Morley have cleverly devised a maze system, where to see your Doctor, you first have to earn the rite. The idea being, that if you can't find them, shitter for you. And this is exactly why appointments run over. Their offices are hidden in cubby holes, round corners, in nooks and crannies, under the carpet, in the toilet etc. One would not be altogether surprised to discover the fabled minotaur.

You're in, you're safe.

Scenario 1: Some early twenties man in jeans is typing on a computer. You provide a list of symptoms, which they input into Google (or some similar programme). Rather pleased with themselves, they print the sourced information off for you to read. You, in your charmingly hypochondriac fashion, have already deduced this. Thanks.

Scenario 2: 'Unfortunately we don't know a lot about the condition. You'll just have to learn to get along with it.' Oh, great. I'm glad I booked time off work to find out that the majority of things ailing my body are incurable.

Scenario 3: 'It's okay at the moment. If it gets worse, come back. Oh, take 12,000 Ibuprofren a day.' A.K.A 'Well, you're not currently at death's door and I'm desperate to nip out for a cous cous salad. Please leave'.

Scenario 4 (you have more than one worry): 'I can only cope with one health concern. Make a separate appointment for each concern.' Which you are very pleased to hear. They've been so ridiculously unhelpful with your first query, that you're looking forward to a similar level of competence with any future ones.

Yeah, unless it's one for A&E, I think I'll just whack a plaster on it.