When in Buenos Aires ...

In order to lose weight some people choose to eat less, run more of do the equivalent of jumping in front of a moving freight train. I chose the latter.

... so despite my abhorrence at anything to do with plastic surgery when I arrived here nearly three years ago, I recently decided that over the age of 40 you have to give in to your genetic inheritance and no amount of diet or exercise is going to shift grandma’s baggy hand-me-downs. Plus, this is the mecca of low cost beauty treatments so I thought, why the hell not? How painful could it be?

"When in Rome...", right?

Whoah! Stop reading right now if you’re in anyway squeamish. I mean, its not that I was totally new to pain (Ive had babies for God’s sake) nor was I naive about the consequences of having metal tubes shoved through my skin to hoover out the fatty deposits. I knew there’d be bruising and discomfort but why didn't I know about the long hours under anaesthetic, the back ache, the greasy leakages and the plumbing that would be hanging off me for days like blood filled Xmas baubles. Nothing could’ve prepared me for what I thought was to be a little “body sculpturing”.

Twenty four hours after surgery and home in my own bed. Trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey in a 17th century corset from rib cage to knee caps, my skin the sickly colour of a banana milk shake, I kept asking myself what the hell was I thinking. My only consolation was that my darling friend The Spice Girl (TSG) had been wheeled into the operating theatre straight after me for a mini-tummy tuck and a touch of lipo, and that she too was suffering wildly.

It's now 48 hours later, still in the same medieval bone binding garment and I have been banished to my room due to the foul decaying odour I am emitting. I am so swollen my feet have been replaced with pig’s trotters. My hair is so greasy I could sell it off in clumps and franchise it out to Burger King for chip fat. My body suit now is a patchwork quilt of varying hues of red as I continue to eek out vital fluids and I feel, without doubt, like a human tampon!

Its Day Three and TSG and I are off to the doctor for our first post-op checkup. We’re excited about the garments being scraped off our bodies but nervous about the extraction of the tubes and trinkets that have become our allies during this ordeal. Going downtown is always such a great excuse to dress up but admittedly this time, my outfit was a bit of a let down. As TSG so tactfully put it, I looked like a homeless person. (This in itself reveals a huge gap in the fashion industry for post-lipo recovery wear .... any takers?).

And so, here we both were, like Patsy and Eddie,

shuffling madly like it was an Olympic event, dodging unsympathetic taxi drivers as we tried to cross three lanes of traffic because God knows, the cars here stop for no-one (especially not for homelesss people!). While TSG walked hunched over like a greasy octogenarian with a bellyache and me teetering like Miss Piggy in platform flipflops, we managed to find the whole experience oh so hilarious that between us, we almost split stitches and provoked a haemorrahagic catastrophe on the sidewalks of fashionable Recoletta.

Day something ... Ive lost track of time and all rational thought. I’m constantly told by well meaning friends that it will be all so worth it, come summer time, in that bikini ... I remain totally unconvinced that my swollen legs will ever deflate beyond their current sausage- like state, but I will repeat the mantra that “no pain is no gain” (although Im not sure this is what Jane Fonda had in mind..).

There is, of course, an upside to all of this. Magnum looks Absolutely Fabulous in his nurse’s uniform!

Stay tuned for the recovery ...

Jungle Exploits

This one goes out to my number one and only fan  ..
The famous, Steven Seagull of Santiago, Chile. His desperate lack of reading material and his talent for capturing Sydney bird life so beautifully on canvas, have inspired me to continue with my time wasting rhetoric on expats behaving badly.

So much has happened since our Uruguayan rampage a few months ago.

I decided that the family holidays should take on a more adventurous feel and so proceeded to book the next three South American trips without a beach or kid’s club in sight. (Magnum was so dead keen on this idea, it wasn’t funny.)

Our first foray into the realm of Indiana Jones-ville was in March. Bound for Brazil’s Amazon jungle, we stepped off the plane in Sao Paulo and immediately encountered hostile natives. Trapped without any hope of escape for six hours in a dark and soulless enclosure and we hadn’t even made it through immigration. It was one of the worst experiences of my life (apart from being escorted off the stage at a Police concert back in the 80’s .. but that’s an entirely different story). Anyway, there we were, all hopes dashed of me officially entering the country due to a silly tourist visa issue ie. I didn’t have one! They were under the delusion that I would seriously return to Argentina without Magnum and the boys, and give up my holiday in the Amazon!  I just wrapped myself around a set of metal chairs and refused to budge. To cut a very long and painful story short, in our final hour I was rescued by Australian government officials who hacked their way through the red tape and secured my release from the Terminal of Doom, with their fearless efforts and a fax machine. 

Reunited once again with my Australian passport, it was only another 24 hours before we found ourselves bedded down by the edge of the Rio Negro in the heart-ish of the Amazon jungle. A river brimming with caiman, deadly sea snakes and flesh eating piranhas, I was starting to pine for pina coladas and beach towels, but our small eco friendly accommodation with gourmet food and Egyptian cotton sheets, made it somewhat bearable.

And frolicking in smelly, opaque water with pink dolphins and their daily meal of fish guts made the experience very ... unique. Although I think next time I would get out of the water before feeding time began.

Through the jungle we trekked, side stepping monkey spiders the size of hairy footballs whilst befriending a miniature frog the boys creatively named “Tiny”, who hitchhiked in the palm of their hand. Nature’s pharmacy came alive under foot and over head with every flower and tree root providing ancient remedies for modern day ailments (although I never did find the plant that cured hangovers).

Back at base camp the kids and Magnum high dived off the jetty
and straight into the pristine, coca-cola coloured water of the river whilst I enjoyed the safety of my infinity pool a few meters above sea level, far from anything that might consider me "lunch".



After four days of being at one with nature it was time to board the seaplane for civilisation, and to reunite Magnum with his old pal, Blackberry. Flying high above this seemingly edgeless mosaic of waterways and jungle we looked down in awe at the montage of greens and blues, and it was hard to believe anyone would want to change it for the colour of a McDonald’s cheeseburger.


http://www.greenpeace.org.uk/search/node/mcdonalds

W.M.D

What do you get when you put an American, an Australian, a Canadian and a crazy Columbian on a small plane to Uruguay? Lots of one way conversations with immigration officers (que documentos?), stunned passengers and one helluva party weekend!

The "Mummies' Revenge Mini Break" is not for the fainthearted or super mums that lurk silently amongst us. It is pure, unadulterated chaos and nonstop, simultaneous yack, yack, yacking. A gaggle of husband and child free women who want to break loose for a couple of days to remind ourselves of who we are - or were - back in the days when ... wrinkles could only be found in your clothing and a hangover was cured with a single Aspirin and a whiskey chaser.

The weekend starts days before with frantic phone calls of "what clothes, shoes, bags, pharmaceuticals... are you packing?". Carry on luggage for a two night stopover is simply not an option for the party hungry Mummy. Besides half your entire wardrobe other necessities include hairdryer, curling wand, straightening iron, loofahs, body scrubs, portable stereo system, mini bottles of sparkling Chandon, Ibruprofin 600mg and your husband's stolen Mach 3 razor and Gillette foaming gel for sensitive skin!

Bound for Uruguay, we bravely boarded the 20 seater Pluna airline, deftly managing not to brain fellow passengers with our duty free purchases as we headed sideways to our seats. Yippee, on arrival no immigration officials to interrogate us (I think denying any association with the American helped!) and after a pouting protest at having our bags obviously ripped open by thieving baggage handlers it was into the hotel shuttle bus which smelt strangely, like a wet dog (was this my pyscho dog's revenge for leaving her behind, I wondered...).

Once at our ADULTS ONLY (read: mature!) boutique hotel, which is perched atop the sandy foreshores of Punta del Este, we proceeded to harass the receptionist into showing us every single room type available. Despite agreeing that none of us really wanted to spend much time in our rooms anyway, we still insisted on having the best seaview possible (Warning: watch out for the beach loving Aussies in the group that secretly phone ahead and book the last oceanfront suite!).

Obviously the first place we congregate after the unpacking ceremony in 

the (ha ha) lateral seaview rooms, (or ocean fronted suite for one of us) is of course, the beach bar. Luck befell us when one of our darhling husbands phoned the hotel all the way from B.A. to order bottles of champagne for us girlies, as we languished by the infinity pool making our way through the cocktail menu in alphabetical order ... Sex on the Beach never tasted so good! 

Which naturally, brings me around to our favourite topic of conversation throughout the entire wholesome Mummy weekend, besides cellulite of course was .. sex.  Past and present antics were discussed in great detail usually accompanied by squeals of laughter (us) and plenty of raised eyebrows (them) from our fellow poolside guests. I had the feeling the hotel's "ADULT ONLY" policy was about to change to "MAD MOTHER'S MINI BREAKS NOT PERMITTED".  

A nice way to break up the ABC system of alcohol consumption and to hide from some of the more pervie eavesdroppers, was to indulge in a little pampering. I do feel it's advisable to inform your masseuse not to light aromatherapy candles after your drinking session, in case the fumes you are exhaling set the whole spa on fire. Not surprisingly, our Canadian Mummy spent the whole hour holding her breath ... And if you feel that your Uruguayan masseuse may be a little fed up with the marauding Argentine crowds each summer, perhaps don't suggest she uses extra force during your massage. Clearly, after being slightly winded from my own experience, this is one excuse for the locals to belt the crap out of a tourist, and not get arrested! 

For all good holiday makers a tour of the town is a must - but perhaps not on the way to a misplaced restaurant after an eight hour drinking session, wearing stonking high heels and a stinking hangover. 

On our quest for food, we were being happily led by our chatty, Columbian yummy mummy version of the Pied Piper who en route, managed to pick up two fearless teenage boys and a mangey stray dog we fondly called "Toby". (I would like to note the teenagers swiftly disappeared but the dog stayed for dinner!)

And so the weekend continued with good food and great wine as the Mini Break Mummies misbehaved appropriately until it was once again time for demented duty free purchases of Dior lipsticks and Chunky Kit Kats.

By the way ......... whoever said W.M.D. (Women of Mass Destruction) don't exist, were simply not in Punta del Este last weekend! 

Tango is the Go Go

Here I am, back from the abyss of "blogger's block". Long time no write but have been busy contemplating the afterlife. As a great believer in reincarnation I have decided to put my name down for coming back as an Argentine female tango dancer. I'll probably have to join the queue in Reincarnationville, but I think it will be worth the wait. 

Having resisted the opportunity to see a tango show here in Buenos Aires for over 18 months, I finally used Grandpa Ken's visit from Australia as an excuse to see what has made this country so famous in the world of dance. I must admit I really didn't understand what the fuss was all about when it came to tango. Two greasy haired people, apparently pissed off with each other, the woman getting shoved away by her jealous, foot stomping lover one minute, to a suffocating, apologetic embrace by him the next. I mean the melodrama ... just build a bridge and get over it! My uncultured opinions aside, I booked us some tickets and off we went. Magnum and his best friend Blackberry were really excited to be joining us and even managed to tear themselves apart during the opening act. Perhaps the sudden cease fire of "tap tapping" had something to do with those endless, shapely legs and impossibly toned, scantily clad bodies up on stage - and that was just the men! 

Well stone me, if these dancers weren't the best I'd ever seen - and let's face it, I've been up close and personal to my fair share of entertainers 

(grabbing Seal's butt at his last concert comes to mind ... but as usual, I digress). All I could think about, as I cringed and consoled my twice reconstructed knee under the table, was the Barbie doll I owned as a child with the clicky, moveable joints. How on earth did these women snap those beautifully shaped calves at lightening speed through impossible angles, without their feet flinging off? I imagined that their joints were all hinged together with invisible pieces of string, like a marionette, and once the show had finished the dancers were folded up and put away in their respective boxes until the next night's performance.  Whoah! Now I get what all the hoo ha has been about. The Magnum and Blackberry duo can however, breathe a sigh of relief as thanks to my dodgy joints and an impending future with a zimmer frame, they can be spared the humiliation of tango classes.

So whilst not yet a true tango disciple I admit I have been converted by it's passionate allure. I guess I'll have to take a number for the next life and as a stopover to being an Argentine dance goddess, perhaps submit to a less stressful afterlife. I'd like to come back as something loved and cherished, never to be left alone ... to be inseparable from the one who cannot breathe, sleep, relax, eat, drive, shower or go on holidays without me ... 

I know. I'll come back as a f@#*ing Blackberry in a global financial crisis. 

Janno's Art

Visit Janno's website for more details on her artwork and social projects

Spuds and Speed

Four weeks into the diet from hell and Dr Quackamole doesn't quite know what to do with me. I have refused to continue with his diet regimen which was undoubtedly created as a back up to water boarding techniques as another form of insufferable torture. Being deprived of carbohydrates for so long, I began hallucinating and seeing everyone as giant sized Mr Potato Heads ... 

I did win a few merit points from my Mexican el doctor when I told him I substituted the wine over dinner with no- calorie tequila. Jose Cuervo has now taken the place of the house red, accompanied by a little salt and lemon and a very big straw hat. Welcome home honey!

To get my mind off food, I decided to get out of the suburbs and return to a very different landscape. After rattling across town in the back of a jalopy style taxi on my way into the Riachuelo Villa (pronounced veeja) - better known as a slum or shanty town - I contemplated just how lucky I was to be able to eat anything at all. As we got nearer to the sprawling enclave of tin shacks, dusty roads and junk yard dogs, the view grew progressively darker. Choking in heavy traffic I looked out our window and realised just how far my so called "measly" meals would go for example, in the hands of the man laying completely submersed under layers of filthy blankets with just his feet poking out.   Here's this guy, just 10 feet from our taxi, with only a pair of tattered socks and a battered shopping trolley to his name while I've spent the last 40 minutes "tut tutting" over the banged up, uncomfortable ride we're sitting in and already counting the hours until I get back home to central heating and a hot bath.  "Home" for this guy and his mate was on a slab of concrete, under the heavily polluted bypass that connected one urban barrio to the next. The norm for Sao Paulo in Brazil, a shock for me here! I decided to shutup about my hunger pains and try not to listen to the rumbling belly of the guy in the street.

On a brighter note, our entry into the Villa was received by a humble yet happy lot. Persuaded (dragged? emotionally blackmailed?) yet again by my darling Aussie mate and artist Janno to return here and splash paint everywhere (I am not good with a paint brush!) is without doubt, not the highlight of my week. However how can you refuse the "Mother Teresa of Riachuelo"? 

She has more energy then Tigger and more talent than Picasso.

Her project here in this pitiful place is to brighten up wooden shacks and empty factory walls with donated paint and endless imagination. To somehow, in an artistic way, lend a bit of light to people who live without electricity, windows, flooring and most importantly no running water - which means no dunny - which freaks me out no end.

It's really not that bad here. Once you get over the mountains of dog poo (yes, again with the dog poo), the drug dealers, the dirt, the stench from no running water and the scented breeze from the heavily polluted, flood-prone river just meters away, it's quite an experience. Coating such a desperate environment in colours and fabulous murals has brought another life to this ghetto and it's eclectic mix of immigrants and a few impoverished Argentines. These people are proud of their painted shacks and lean-too's and are staying focussed on keeping their environment as sanitary and habitable as possible. There are a hundred sad stories engraved on each face here but occasionally, when you look past the drug deals and hold your nose tightly enough, you will see the unbridled excitement on a child's face when he knows that Janno is coming to paint their house today - because coming "home" to a rainbow or a massive red love heart, just makes his day that little bit brighter. 

Okay, okay before the violins take over ... back to the serious issue of cellulite ... I would just like to mention that I think Dr Quackamole may have been sourcing some of his "medications" in a place like this... It turns out the little white bottle of unmarked pills (he insists are 100% natural) that he distributes from his surgery - the ones that keep your appetite at bay and keep your eyeballs fixated on your bedroom ceiling from midnight to dawn - are, in fact, surprise surprise, 100% natural amphetamines ... 

So it seems you don't need to pop into your closest shanty town to find some mind altering substances - we have them in the posh parts too! 

And in case you're wondering ... I've starting eating potatoes again! 

For more about Janno and her art projects, go to ... http://www.janno.net

Clucking for Carbs

Back in Argentina and the sun is shining, a beautiful blue sky overhead and a small army of domestic staff to relieve me of washing clothes, floors, dishes and grubby children until the next "holiday". Great to be back in a winter which is warmer than a Scottish summer. And to celebrate my return to the southern hemisphere I've decided to really embrace the Latino culture and go for every known weight loss solution that doesn't involve invasive surgery. Come with me on a journey into car crash dieting and experimentation into the world of fad fat cures that are scientifically unproven and have potentially dangerous side effects. Rock on!

Accompanied by my gorgeous friend Brittney G String, I finally entered into one of those quirky little "clinicas" lurking on the corner of a quiet suburb, a family home in it's hey day, and now converted into a mini Eden with promises of eternal youth and beauty. Pretty, tiny, little receptionists smile (sympathetically in my case) showcasing the benefits of staff discounts in a business that offers anything from botox to boob jobs. What was once a family room is now converted into a white washed waiting room infused with angelic tunes and a plethora of brochures flaunting tantalising treatments that will change your body shape forever. On a cloud of fearless ? determination I was led up, what once would've been a bog standard staircase and is now a spiral Greek style faux marble stairway (noice!), to a new metabolic mecca. 

Here I was to have my first middle age makeover with a "nutritionist"; a charming 30 year old Mexican chap in a white coat, who I soon labelled "Dr Quackamole".  After just a few essential medical questions like "do you have life insurance" and "who is your next of kin" I succumbed to the idea that a week of ONLY meat, low fat cheese, eggs and diet sodas would be nutritionally beneficial and set me on a path to weight loss heaven. What, no carbs? (hey, wait a minute .. isn't this the Aitkens diet? And didn't he die of a heart attack?). Hmmm. I contemplated my sacrifices ... no fruit smoothies for breakie? No life saving slab of chocolate mid afternoon? And more importantly, no 6pm slug of a well rounded red to get me through the kid's homework? God forbid. This was going to be difficult. But another summer holiday spent wrapped in a kaftan on a sun stroked Australian beach was just not an option anymore. Desperate times call for desperate measures and if I had to sacrifice carbohydrates (and sanity) for a week, than so be it. Only one problem, I don't eat red meat, fish or anything resembling Spam so will have to be creative with an egg, a chook and a slab of rubbery cheese for the next ... 21 meals! 

And it just gets better folks .. 

Not content to only follow such a nutritious eating plan I've decided to speed things up a bit by having Mesotherapy. Meso - what? Oh, it's nothing really. Just a million little wasp stings loaded with natural ingredients like isopoterenol, pentoxiflline ... injected into your fatty bits to help dissolve those stubborn areas that all the water and walking in the world just ain't gunna shift at this age. No pain no gain is the motto for this week. And let me tell you ... it HURTS! I've now got so many track marks and bruises across my mid section I look like I've been attacked by a blind midget junkie.

So here I gingerly sit, a guinea pig for those of you who perhaps wanted to try something stupid and are just too intelligent to give it a go.  It is for you - and my fellow beach goers on the south coast of New South Wales, that I am willing to try a treatment described encouragingly as "containing numerous cocktails of chemical compounds .. causing rupture and cell death".  blah blah. Spoken by a bunch of party pooping, skinny scientists who've never had cellulite.

Wish me luck ... it's now day 5 of scrambled eggs and chicken breasts and I'm positively clucking ....

Sticky Fingers

Golf. The most ridiculous sport known to man aside from wrestling and tossing the caber. After my feeble attempts with practice swings on the driving range (I was refused entry to St Andrews, something to do with being handicapped?) and being completely patronised by my eight year old Mal, I have spoken to our lawyers who suggested that whacking your husband over the head with a four iron may indeed be just cause for a divorce, so best avoid the game as a family pursuit for the moment. I have decided to leave the clubs in the bag for now and wait until we get back to Buenos Aires where I can have a nice Latino instructor teach me all about birds, duckies and eagles from the safety of the club house bar. 

Stupid games aside I must say, we really did enjoy seeing the cultural sites during the Edinburgh Festival. Finally got tickets for the Tattoo which, much to my relief, wasn’t actually an international demonstration of skin ink but a fabulous military pageantry performed in the lap of a Grande Dame and our gracious hostess - Edinburgh Castle. The Norwegians definitely stole the show this year, dressed as vikings and raging out from the jaws of the Castle on skis, wielding flame throwers and shouting something like “can’t stop can’t stop” .... It was either a fine re-enactment of ancient tribal warriors or they may have just been over reacting to the sight of the young ladies in tights from the USA marching band! (You had to be there!)

But perhaps the real highlight of the night was the sad lament of the lone piper perched high on a parapet, eerily bathed in a single spotlight, playing for the lost souls of soldiers past, lest we forget. 

Culturally speaking though I have to say Fingers Piano bar is well worth a visit for anyone wanting to experience a local haunt and hob nob with Edinburgh’s underworld. Uncle Chucky, my beloved brother in law, can often be seen lounging over the baby grand crooning to local favorites like Rod’s “Maggie Mae” and “I will walk 100 miles” from that internationally acclaimed Edinburgh duo, The Proclaimers. Yes, Buenos Aires could really do with a sticky venue like Fingers to enhance it’s nocturnal reputation and encourage those seedy singalongs we all enjoy at four in the morning. Next time you're in Edinburgh folks make sure to pop in and ask for Charlie or Michael!

Which brings me round to reminding you of the glamour of international travel. The schlepping of over stuffed suitcases (packed with your favorite can't live without supermarket goodies), the personal body checks, the perversity of removing shoes and walking barefoot amongst strangers in grotty airports, the joys of Terminal 5 at Heathrow and it’s state of the art inter-terminal connections that involve one bus, two trains, loads of sweat and a genuine loss of the will to live. This was our buildup to sitting on board an over heated aircraft while waiting two hours for the ground crew to replace the bit that starts the engine. In other words, the pilot’s got a hangover and has lost the bloody ignition key! We take off just in time before oxygen deprived passengers in cattle class declare a savage mutiny on a frantic B.A. stewardess who has threatened El Capitan that she will make us all disembark if we don’t get a jump start within the next few minutes. Thank God for the peace and tranquility of upstairs business class keeping us far from the madding crowd.

Engines started and I’ve hereby officially joined the mile high club for bloggers (yes, even in space narcissists can still here you scream). I must say, I'm not sure what all the fuss is about. Unless I'm doing something wrong, it really is a tad cramped with the laptop in these pokey toilets. Better go, someone knocking on the door ... 

Heaven Can Wait

Well here I am, three weeks in Edinburgh and only managed one run-in with the law so far. A medieval traffic warden that may have let my sister-in-law, Sanzcerre, off the hook if it wasn’t for my insistence on calling him a “ stupid old git”. Yes. On reflection, that must’ve been it. Auch, aye, they’re a touchy lot, these Scots.

I must say though, parking infringements aside, it’s been such a joy to leave the dog poo pavements of B.A. for a reunion with the clan and the old, old haunts of Edinburgh with it’s polished cobblestone streets and its predominant castle peering overhead. It’s been a sad time also with the passing of a much loved grandfather, provoking all sorts of questions about heaven and hell from Mal and Beck and their wee cousins. “Heaven is a place for grandpas and all things good”, I explained tenderly. “Hell” I continued, “is a place reserved for boogie men, monsters and ... parking attendants”.

The grandchildren also learnt that heaven even holds a place for goldfish. We were entrusted by the five year old daughter of our dear Scottish friends and landlords (dangerous combination), to take care of her two cherished fish while they went on holidays. A task we could hardly refuse having already been threatened by an eviction notice within our first 24 hours. Totally not fair considering it was the landlord’s wife, “Agnetha” who was the instigator of all things naughty! It was she, and not me or “Frida” (another Aussie collaborator), who instigated the high volume Abba show at 2am. It wasn’t MY idea to use an ironing board and a lampshade for props whilst sofa surfing in her upstairs apartment. Our contribution to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival was cut short by our friend/husband/landlord - Andrew Not Llloyd Webber - bringing the curtain down before the sun came up. (Which this time of year in Edinburgh is around 3am).

Anyhoo... back to the goldfish, who we fondly renamed “Dumb” and “Dumber”. Within four days in our foster care, I noticed Dumb (or was it Dumber?) performing a stationery backstroke for the better part of the morning. Unwilling to perform CPR - despite the threat of a second eviction notice - I swiftly plucked Dumb from its watery grave and hoiked it into the rose bushes out back. This site then became known as “Fishy Heaven” (not least by the neighbour’s cat!). A quick trip to the garden centre ensued and “Dumb Too” is now swimming laps - the right way up - around and around and around. I’m now convinced Dumb died from dizziness and not from over feeding after all. (Hmmm... I wonder which will be my fate, in the end?).

Fish aside, although I consider myself well accustomed to men in skirts wearing no undies, and despite still needing an English translator for the Glaswegians, I never tire of this timeless city and its polite and charming (albeit half naked) folk. And even in traffic, this is a place where not only do they send you a written invitation to approach the roundabout, they actually pause with a smile, to let you finish your reverse park. Oh how I miss Buenos Aires drivers, with the pounding of horns, the abusive hand gestures as they slice off your wing mirror when screeching past you in a rush to get to the next red light.

Speaking of ingratuitous violence, I’ve decided to take up golf. I’m setting out, in the birthplace of this mighty sport, to prove that surely, even a good walk can’t be spoilt by an afternoon of whacking balls and hacking up manicured greens with a loved one. For my maiden journey I’ll ask Magnum to take me for a spin around some paddock they call St Andrews.

I mean, how difficult can standing still and hitting a little white ball with a long metal stick really be?

Fond Farewells

I love going visiting and I love having visitors. The great thing about living so far away from friends and loved ones, is that when they come to visit (and some of them actually do follow up on their threat), they stay for long enough that you get to remember them so well, you're totally over them for another year or ten. I must admit though, in my case it's more of me wanting to go too or begging them to stay longer rather than wishing them gone. On occasion I've actually tried to conceal myself as just another baggage tag in the hope they will take me with them, but I think having to lug the extra 200 kgs gives me away. 

I was so delighted when my great Aussie mate came down to visit me recently. A fellow professional expat wife like myself, Good Aussie Friend (GAF) lives in a place she fondly calls "Calcutta with guacamole". (Let's just say this was one occasion that I didn't attempt to sneak into her suitcase when she left). Instead we made the most of her visit by sitting alongside the empty fireplace contemplating how to get a fire started and when we did finally manage to get a bonfire going, we stayed there for the remaining five days of her trip, celebrating our resourcefulness and congratulating ourselves that we didn't burn the house down. Coincidently, GAF's stay did coincide with Magnum's overseas trip which allowed us to run amok with the cocktail bar and our extensive 1970's Australian music collection. (Yes, that's right, extensive - not just INXS and Midnight Oil you know!). We managed to kill a good few hours (ten, I think) by the fire one night with the help of old tunes and Magnum's rare Polish vodka, which we found hidden deep in the freezer. We agreed he would've wanted us to finish it, so we did.  

On other occasions, when we lived in Chile, I had the rare pleasure of accommodating both father and father in law at the same time. This unlikely duo would venture out into the wilds of Santiago city first thing in the morning and not return until nightfall, like two errant school boys literally, lost in translation and loving it. The true personification of "the odd couple", my father is a rousing Aussie stirrer, a real rough diamond. In contrast, my father in law was an obvious gentleman, a charming Scotsman that became more to me than just my husband's father. Alex was my friend, my travelling companion, my witness (and at times, an unsuspecting accomplice) to so many of my embarrassing moments abroad. A seasoned expat in his own right before he eventually retired in Edinburgh, I would never tire of his personal tales from war time in India to the steamy shores of 1960's Singapore. My flippant life overseas could never compare to the excitement and significance of his 36 years away from home. We shared a laugh, a cry and a damn good gin and tonic on those lazy afternoons.

The not so great thing about living away from loved ones is missing the opportunity to say a final goodbye. Despite the sunny forecast, this time Edinburgh summer seems just a little bit more overcast than usual, with the sad passing of a great mate, a loving grandpa and a true gentleman.