Sorry for the absence – blame Mr A! He swept me off to
Cyprus for a week of beachin’ about for my Birthday! *HERO*
true Brit style, the after sun went straight into the min-fridge, the towels
were out at 9am and drinking pretty much started at breakfast.
all the hot 40-something-yoga-mums swanned around with flutes of prosecco, I
was found balancing virgin Shirley temples in-between my boobs whilst reading
Kirstie Clements, ‘The Vogue Factor
’, for the majority of my stay.
turning down the Wi-Fi offer, I spent a whole 7 days in ignorant bliss: no
yellow bird and no bastard FB ping! Who new you could survive a week without
were spent alternating between the pool, gardens and beach, giving the bikini
briefs an abundance of memorabilia, from grass blades to sandy stones.
was so hot my nail varnished peeled off and I often found myself humiliatingly
rolling nude across the bedroom trying to follow the blades of the Aircon.
Hawt, I am not.
bought cocktails to my sun bed all day certainly saved the kilojoules shed from
walking the whole 2 meters to the beach bar. I found this helped retain the
staggering 7lb increase, which I’ve of course put down to water retention and
not the 8 course daily slutfest at dinner. One must take full advantage of an
& Lianne La Havas
repeat, just quietly enough so that I could still hear the waves softly kiss
the shore. The volume however increased when the northerners had 4-hour chats