Oh, hai 1am on Saturday morning! Long time since I’ve seen you, no? Well, actually, that’s not strictly true, obviously. I mean, I did see you last Saturday morning, but that was by choice, because I’d been out on the tiles, having fun and partying like a rock star and stuff.* This Saturday morning, though, you and I met on account of the near-riot that was apparently happening a couple of streets away.
Fun times, 1am-on-Saturday-morning, fun times…
Yes, folks, the locals have been restless again. This happens every year when the football season starts, and is the main reason, other than those hideous “strips” British men wear all the freakin’ time (as if dressing up as a footballer is a valid outfit choice when you’re actually a 33-year-old accountant called Clive**, who hasn’t been near a football field in years. If ever.) why if I ruled the world, I would ban football, without a second thought. Yes, you heard me right, I would ban it. And yes, I know there are lots of you out there who enjoy watching a bunch of men chase a ball around a field, but that’s too bad, because this is my world-ruling fantasy, and in it I refuse to have my sleep disturbed every weekend because the people who watch football around here tend to want to fight about it afterwards. Seriously.
Actually, on second thoughts, maybe I won’t ban football. Because, as boring as football is to me, I have to concede that there are lots of football fans out there who do not morph into The Army of the Undead every time they watch a match. It’s just unfortunate that a large percentage of the ones that do happen to drink at the Ghetto Pub, which is in the estate behind ours. The Ghetto Pub is far enough way from us that it shouldn’t really bother us at all, but the people who frequent it have other ideas, and every time there’s a football match on (which is more or less EVERY WEEKEND at this time of year), they all come pouring out of it at midnight and start howling at the moon and chanting incantations to the devil, before finally succumbing to houting mindlessly at each other and engaging in running battles. This goes on for about an hour, by which time everyone within a half-mile radius is awake, and I’m fit to be tied.
No, the police don’t care.
The next day, should we try to take a walk around the area, we will find broken bottles, discarded takeaway cartons, and – yes – pools of vomit. Niiiice.
So, OK, football gets a reprieve. The Ghetto Pub is banned, though. Totally. In fact, all pubs on housing estates are banned under my rule. No good can come of them. If people want to get so drunk they stand in the street screaming and vomiting of a Friday night, they can go and do it in the town centres, where there’s a better chance of them being picked up by the police/run over by a bus. Sorry, people who live in town centres. Sucks to be you, doesn’t it?
Can you tell I’m feeling just a little bit sleep deprived this morning? Yes, indeed I am. Because, not only did I spent part of the night listening to the Lobotomised at Birth yodeling in the street, I was also woken up at around 8:30am this morning by The Dog Who Barks. Who barks incessantly. For hours. On end. Early. Late. All the freaking time. Soon, The Dog Who Barks will be joined by The Man Who Washes His Car With the Radio Cranked Up. And then they will both be joined by The Girl Who Hates Other People’s Noise And Who Is Just Grateful That Guns Are Illegal In This Country Or She Would Totally Be In Jail By Now. (That would be me, just in case you’re wondering.)
* Deep Breath *
Just while I’m here, though, and ruling the world, and all…
OTHER THINGS I WILL BAN WHEN I RULE THE WORLD:
Chewing gum
Crocs
Heelys
Those stupid “personal”
MP3 player things that have stupid little tinny SPEAKERS on them. THE HELL is that about?
Whistlers. Obviously.
People who walk really slowly in crowded areas.
The phrase “I could care less”. Because it’s “I couldn’t care less” and it’s driving me insane.
Feel free to add to this list, folks. Because I surely will…
* Not strictly true
** No offense to accountants called Clive, obviously. Hi, Clives! Love you!
(Rubin is the dog with the blog. This post was written by him.)
Actually, let’s not be modest here, folks. I don’t just BELIEVE I can fly: I KNOW I can fly. Lookit:
 SEE? I can totally fly. Like Superman, only better.
Just in case yoos are wonderin’, no Terry is not helping me in this picture. Ha, like he even could! Terry wouldn’t know how to fly if a book called HOW TO FLY came and bit him on the ass. It’s just me what can do it. Yes, your Rubinman has superpowers! Other superpowers I’ve got: ability to pee on the washing machine more often than you would believe possible, barking at the kind of pitch that would make you deaf, saving the world. Yoos can thank me later for that last one. For now, just know that the Rubinman is here, watching over yoos. In fact, when you go to sleep at night, I am hovering over your bed JUST LIKE IN THE PICTURE.
I bet yoos are all totally freaked out now, no? Don’t worry, I know it’s not every day you see a flying WOLF and all, but rest assured that the Rubinman uses his superpowers for good rather than evil. Most of the time.
Laters,
Rubin
So, Friday night, Terry taught Rubin how to levitate:
With that mission accomplished, on Saturday we headed into Edinburgh for our friend Claire’s 30th birthday dinner. It was a good night, and not just because Terry and I don’t get out much. Seriously, we probably won’t leave the house again until Christmas. In fact, Terry definitely won’t, because today Terry somehow managed to buy a TV that’s just slightly bigger than ME. Yes.
This was particularly amazing to me, because actually, we’d just gone out so I could buy a new dressing gown. In fact, Terry wasn’t even going to come with me, but just as I was leaving he was all, "Oh, I’ll just come with you and have a quick look in Curry’s [purveyors of electrical goods, for the benefit of those of you who don’t live here} while you’re shopping." I dunno, maybe this should’ve rung alarm bells, but it didn’t, so I bought my dressing gown, and then, OK, a sports bra and a pair of running shorts (I know! Shorts! I was in a sports store and everything!). Then I went to meet him at Curry’s and discovered that in the time it had taken me to choose between the mint green dressing gown and the pale yellow one (mint green won, natch) he had somehow bought a TV. That is HUGE.
I don’t know what happened. Because we already have a TV. That fits into the living room. This one… possibly won’t. If it does, I’m thinking it’ll have to be the ONLY thing in the room. Like, we’ll have to sit on the stairs, or get Rubin to teach us how to levitate or something so we can actually watch it.
Guess we know what Terry’s going to be doing this winter, then…
Today at the gym (four times in a row! GO ME!), before the class even started, I managed to:
1. Drop a barbell on my thumb, creating the kind of pain that makes your heart rise into your mouth, and makes you feel like you’re going to throw up any second.
2. During a gap in the ear-splittingly loud music that was playing at the time, shout out the phrase, “HE LIKES TO STOP AND PEE ALL THE TIME!”
I think I may be starting to understand why I’m Amber-No-Mates at the gym…
(On that second one, I was having a shouted conversation with Terry at the time, about a man I’d spotted through the window, who was out running with his two dogs.
Me: I wish I could go running with Rubin!
Terry: You could go running with Rubin.
Me: No I couldn’t: I’d never get to do any running because he…
[MUSIC STOPS]
Well, you know the rest. And so does everyone who was in Body Pump this morning. Gah.)
On the plus side, this product, on sale in the gym’s reception, always makes me smile, so it’s a good job I always have my phone camera with me at the gym, for those “pretending to be busy” moments:
OMG, size zero! Isn’t it terrible the pressure kids are under to be skinny these days? Particularly given that, as we all know for a fact, size zero is ugly and unattractive, and ALL MEN hate women who are that size. Because those women are not “real” women. Nosiree.
Note: I’m being sarcastic, by the way, just in case anyone didn’t realise. (And trust me, I have to say that because there’s pretty much always someone who doesn’t. Case in point: the angry comments I sometimes get on this entry from people who want to tell me off for being so “nasty” about redheads and “hating on them”. Because yes, folks, I am secretly one of the redhead hatrz. That’s why I have this headfull of red hair, you know? Because I hate it. Not as much as I hate the use of the phrase “hating on”, though.)
Where was I? Oh yes, size zero. Yes, I was being sarcastic above, because God knows, this is my pet hate right now, the way people would never in a million years make a derogatory comment about larger women (and quite rightly so), but think it’s absolutely fine to call thin ones “ugly” and tell them endlessly than no men find them attractive. Names like “stick insects” and “lollipop heads” and “skeletons” are bandied about with gay abandon in the UK media right now (and particularly in the fashion blogosphere, where slagging off the skinny girls is de rigeur these days), but overweight people are regularly described as “curvy” and “voluptuous” and “real women”. (What are the thin ones, then? Imaginary?)
It winds me up. So much, in fact, that I don’t think I can even trust myself to write any more about it without it degenarating into an incoherent rant. Even more so than it has already, I mean. Here, have a picture of my dog:
Tagged the gym
People, my winter holiday is BACK ON. Even if I have to, I dunno, sell Rubin or something to pay for it. Because seriously, folks. SERIOUSLY. Enough with the rain already. I mean, people had to be rescued by boat from the town next door to ours last night because of all the rain/flooding, and other people had to be airlifted to the local hospital because of it. Which would really, really suck, you know?
Now, we live in Scotland, where it’s pretty much all hills, all the time, so trust me: we just don’t get that much flooding. I’m starting to feel like we’re in The Bible or something. I’m also starting to think that if we don’t get the hell out of Dodge, and soon, we’ll grow webbed feet and have to learn how to breathe under water. And I know that sounds cool, but I just don’t think it would be somehow.
The result of all of this apocalyptic weather? As I said, the winter holiday is a goer. It looks like we will just be going to the Canaries, which is exactly what I thought would happen, because there is seriously nowhere cheaper (that’s within five hours of the UK and hot at that time of year), but at this point I really don’t care because GIVE ME SUN. Please. I’m desperate here.
In slightly better news, my stint at the gym last Thursday turned out not to be an isolated event after all, and so far I have been every day this week (I know!), doing Body Pump, Body Combat and, today, Body Attack. So, yeah, I feel like my body really has been attacked now, for sure.
I also feel kind of like the new girl at high school, because the thing about all of these classes is that everyone else already seems to know each other. Now, I know people are always recommending the gym as a place to make new friends, but I just don’t see how that can be done easily – and not just because people tend to take an instant dislike to me. (No, seriously, I think it’s because my "resting face" is a frown. And maybe because if I don’t have my contact lenses on, I will walk right past people without recognising them, and that tends to cause offence.) I mean, how do you make friends at the gym? Do you just walk up to people while they’re on the treadmill and stand next to them shouting, "HI! WILL YOU BE MY FRIEND?" Because that would be weird.
Note: I don’t actually go to the gym to make friends, by the way. I go to the gym because I like making myself look like someone who has only recently learned how to walk unaided, obviously. It’s just that, when I walk into these classes, I always have a bit of a sinking feeling as I realise that everyone else is standing around in little cliques, and then I have to sit down on the floor by myself and pretend there is something super-interesting on my phone that I absolutely have to look at RIGHT NOW.
In conclusion: I suck at making friends with people. But I have been to the gym three times already this week so, you know, yay me!
So, this morning I came home from the gym and found that Rubin had been using my computer while I was gone. Specifically, Photoshop:
 Rubin's message to Amber
Rubin, if you’re reading this: that’s very sweet, but knock it off, OK?
(Also: we’ve just finished moving Rubin’s blog from Typepad to WordPress, so you may notice some changes to the template etc while we’re getting to grips with it. Rubin’s been pretty lazy recently and hasn’t been bothering to update much, but I’ve told him he has to work for his living here, so hopefully he’ll get back to blogging soon.)
It’s a while since we’ve had a round of Inadvertently Ask Amber – the game where I answer questions suggested to me by the weird and wonderful Google searches people use to find this site – but that doesn’t mean The Crazy hasn’t kept coming, because it most assuredly has. No, it just means I haven’t been telling you about it. Given that I even told you about that time Rubin took a dump in front of his new girlfriend, that’s kind of remarkable, isn’t it?
I have, however, been keeping close track of The Crazy, carefully filing those idiot search terms away in a file called “Things to remind me there are crazier people than me in the world”. So, without further ado, let’s have a look at them, shall we? And let’s just get the mad Redhead Hatin’ out the way first:
will i produce a red haired baby
Like, out of thin air, do you mean? Well, probably not, but if you do, can I watch?
Aside: I know I’ve asked this before, but I ask it again, because I have this habit of saying the same thing over and over again sometimes. I said, I have this habit of saying the same thing… oh, never mind. Anyway my question is this: why do people ask Google such specific, and quite personal questions? It’s not a Magic Eightball, you know! And neither am I. Which brings me to this one:
why am I cold all the time?
You are cold all the time because you have the mysterious, incurable, Cold-All-the-Time disease. Sorry, but you DID ask… Seriously, how would I know? I mean, I’m cold all the time, sure, but that’s because … well, it’s because it’s freaking cold. ALL THE TIME. Don’t even get me started on THAT one…
what are the names of the dogs in the famous five
Duh! There is only one dog in The Famous Five, and he is called Timothy, or Timmy for short. You can’t call him that, though. Only I can call him that, because I’ve read all the books and memorized them. Once YOU’VE done that too, then you can call him “Timmy”. His special talent: discovering underground passages by burrowing into rabbit holes, climbing out of wells unaided, having the waggiest tail ever. God, I loved that dog.
100 reasons to break off a wedding
Damn, you people ask a lot of me, don’t you? Sorry, but if you think I have time to sit here and write out 100 reasons why someone might break off a wedding, you clearly don’t know how lazy I am. Next!
does putting olive oil in ear make you deaf?
WHAT? WHAT? SPEAK UP, YOUNG UN, ALL THIS OLIVE OIL IN MY EARS DONE MAKE ME DEAF!
Actually, no. No, it doesn’t. Well, it could do if you used it all the time, I suppose. ( Disclaimer: is not a doctor.) I mean, when I did it that time, I ended up at the doctor’s surgery having my ear syringed, and the nurse told me to never pour anything in my ear EVER AGAIN, because only stupid people do that, and she may also have said something about me being lucky not to have made myself deaf, but I couldn’t really hear her, on account of I had a syringe in my ear at the time. And also: olive oil.
a caravan is parked in my street who do i report it to
You can report it to me. I am the Caravan-Parked-in-Street Overlord. Didn’t you know?
black babies stay black in dark room forever?
I can’t even imagine what kind of crack you were smoking when you typed this. And I don’t want to.
wear one dress for a whole year
No. YOU wear one dress for a whole year. See how you like it. Report back, please.
why are scottish people so pale
Because we have no sun, ever. EVER. GOD.
do you know what a ponky is
Do I know what a ponky is? Do I know what a ponky is? D’uh! This, my friends, is a ponky:
So, what you’re basically seeing here is a pink donkey = “Ponky”. Do you see what I did there? This isn’t just any old Ponky, though: this is Ponky Number 2. Here is Ponky Number 1:
Have you spotted the deliberate mistake yet? Because we didn’t. My mum and I found this Ponky at Ikea one day, and were thrilled at the sight of it. “Look, a pink donkey!” we shrieked in delight. “A Ponky!” So we picked the Ponky up, and we paid for the Ponky, and we took the Ponky home with us, and we gave the Ponky to Rubin, all the while repeating the word “Ponky” over and over again, like PonkyPonkyPonky and feeling damn pleased with ourselves for having invented it.
It wasn’t until about three days later that I realised the awful truth – the one that probably hit you RIGHT AWAY….
Yeah, it was a freaking RABBIT.
No, I don’t know. I have absolutely NO IDEA how we could have mistaken it for a Ponky. In our defence, we’d never SEEN a Ponky at that point, and I dunno, maybe the rabbit had secret powers that it used to make us THINK it was a Ponky. All I can say is, at least you won’t make the same mistake, readers. Be ever vigilant for Ponky Imposters. And don’t tell Rubin, OK, because when we told him we’d got him a Ponky, he believed us. Shhh!
Anyway, to come back to the question in hand: yes, I do know what a Ponky is. But sometimes I mistake them for rabbits. Easy mistake to make, could happen to anyone, moving right along…
oh god i need tights now!
Oh, um, that’s nice! Thanks for sharing! You sound really… special! What brought this on so suddenly, though? Was it the Ponky story?
amber mcnaught height on profile
Wow. Always slightly creepy when someone Googles your full name, no? I don’t know what the “profile” reference is, but just so’s you know, I’m 5″3. You’re welcome.
there’s a boy in a sissy girls dress
THERE IS? Oh man, thanks for telling me! I can’t BELIEVE I was sitting here writing about Ponkies when THAT was going on! Laters, folks…
Firstly: I have broken my month long gym drought! Yay me! Yes, Terry and I went to Body Pump this morning, an act facilitated yesterday by Terry giving me a £10 note and telling me that if he DIDN’T get up and go to the gym today, I could keep it. Naturally, I hoped he wouldn’t go, but damn, if he wasn’t up bright and early, all "Let’s go the gym! Let’s go now! Give me back my £10, bitch!"*
* Not really
There was a moment as I hauled my sorry ass out of bed when I briefly contemplated giving him £10 not to make me go, but it’s always the actual getting up and getting out the door that’s the worst part, isn’t it? Once we were there, I did enjoy it, and I may even go again tomorrow, only probably not because whoa, there, sister, let’s take this sloooow….
Anyway, when we got home, we decided to take advantage of the brief outbreak of watery sunshine (don’t worry, it didn’t last, but there were a few hours today when we got to see what the roads and paths around our house look like when they’re dry, and that’s not something you get to see very often, let me tell you) and take the dog for a walk, and, once again, Rubin tried to go into the local pub. Yes, folks, looks like Rubin has himself a drinking problem. GOD.
Of course, I jest. Rubin is really just a social drinker, but he has tried to get into the pub the last three times we’ve taken him past it, and if we manage to stop him getting in the front door, he just runs round the back. Yes, it’s almost like he’s BEEN THERE BEFORE. Which, actually, now I come to think of it, would totally explain all those beer bottles we keep finding in his bed, and the way he sometimes doesn’t get up until afternoon these days…
Anyway, Rubin is hellbent on getting inside that pub, and it actually has nothing to do with Happy Hour and everything to do with the fact that a couple of weeks ago, Rubin found himself a girlfriend. See, these are the things no one tells you about buying a dog. You think you’re getting this cute little puppy, then the next thing you know, it’s a teenager and it’s bringing home girlfriends and trying to get into the pub all the time. WHO KNEW?
Rubin’s girlfriend is a Shitz-zu called Bonnie. Bonnie belongs to the landlord of the pub, which I guess is every young man’s dream – a girlfriend whose dad owns a pub. They met a couple of weeks ago, when I was out walking Rubin alone, and, of course, once he spotted Bonnie, he was transported with delight. Bonnie’s owner was standing outside the pub with her at the time, and he seemed equally delighted to see Rubin, which was unusual, because that’s not the reaction Rubin usually gets from people. Probably because he normally tries to eat their trousers.
So, Rubin and Bonnie played happily together for a few minutes, and it was kind of like a scene from a Disney movie – two cute little fluffy animals gamboling happily among the green grass and broken Buckfast bottles. Then it all turned a little less Disney as Rubin suddenly spun round a few times and then dropped a giant turd right in front of Bonnie’s surprised face. That was pretty much the end of any romantic notions she might have been starting to have about him, and after that he owner picked her up and carried her back into the pub.
And Rubin followed them.
Luckily, I managed to snatch him up just as he crossed the threshold, but ever since then, he has tried to return at every opportunity he gets. This is mostly our fault, as Terry and I have somehow managed to develop selective amnesia about the events surrounding Rubin and The Pub, which means that every time we go past it, we normally have Rubin off the leash (the pub is right next to the strip of woodland where we walk him), which allows him to speed up and make a break for the saloon doors. Only the presence of the landlord sitting outside the back door stopped Rubin entering the bar and pulling up a stool today, I swear to God.
Clearly the solution to this issue is to keep Rubin on the leash when we get anywhere near the vicinity of the pub. I think his drinking days are over. Also, we really don’t want to have to go in there and drag him out by the scruff of his neck. We really thought that by not having kids we’d be able to avoid those kind of scenes…
Well, that was an unexpectedly long break from the blawg, wasn’t it? And once again, while I’d love to say that my absence has made your hearts grow fonder been the result of various exciting events in my life, the truth is that I’ve been doing a whole lot of nothing. Here are some of the things I have NOT been doing this week:
1. Not Watching the Olympics
No, I have not been watching the Olympics. Because I just don’t care about the Olympics. I know! Shocking, isn’t it? I know from my friends at Twitter that I’m not quite the ONLY person in the world who struggles to give a damn about sports, but sometimes? Sometimes it really feels like I am.
I can’t help it, though: sport just bores me rigid. Or most of it does, anyway. I like the equestrian stuff. And the ice skating. Oh, and that gymnastics thing where they throw a ball and a ribbon around for a while. That’s pretty cool. In fact, when I was a kid, I used to harbour dreams of one day actually turning into my own version of International Velvet and competing in the Olympics myself, as an ace showjumper. (I wasn’t quite deluded enough even then to think I’d ever be able to do the ball-and-ribbon-thing, or the ice skating, but I was quietly convinced that one day roller skating would be an Olympic sport, and that’s when I would show everyone what I was made of. Only it turned out I wasn’t so great at that either, and that’s when I decided to turn to blogging instead. If blogging is ever an Olympic sport, I am totally there…)
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the Olympics. Not watching it. Not caring. Am bad person. And I should probably point out before people shout at me that I have the utmost respect for the various athletes and what they do, because God knows, it’s all I can do to get out of bed some mornings. I just don’t have any interest in watching them do it. Or in hearing people talk about it incessantly. Sucks to be me, doesn’t it?
2. Not watching The Dark Knight, Mamma Mia or Wall-E
Now, I’m pretty sure I AM the only person in the world who is not currently obsessed with one of these movies. Because I can’t seem to exist for even a few hours at a time right now without hearing someone’s account of how they had a near-religious experience while watching The Dark Knight, or being asked whether I’ve seen Mamma Mia yet. And I probably will see Mamma Mia at some point (the other two are like the Olympics to me), possibly years from now, when everyone else has long-since forgotten it, and that’s when I will walk around sounding really old and tragic and out of touch, because that’s what I do.
For some reason, I never seem to latch onto bandwagons until they’re over. It’s not a deliberate thing. It’s not like I watch obscure, subtitled French films instead, and enjoy feeling all smug and superior about it, because I definitely don’t. No, it’s just that I seem to lack the "being interested in really popular things" gene. Like, totally. I mean, most of the time I don’t have a CLUE what you crazy kids are talking about. This is why I spend most of my time at parties standing around awkwardly shifting from foot to foot while people go, "Have you seen X yet? Well, have you seen Y? Have you been watching the Olympics?" Note to self: get out more.
3. Not going to the gym
Yes, the gym and I parted ways several weeks ago now. It was very sudden. One minute Terry and I were taking classes three times a week, and were all, "Ra! Ra! The Gym!" and then the next? Not so much. And by that I mean "not at all". I don’t even know WHY this happened, all I know is that we’ve booked several classes and then, when the alarm has gone off in the morning, we’ve just switched it off and gone back to sleep. When will we go back? Where is my motivation? Why can’t I seem to just get off my ass and GO TO THE GYM ALREADY? Because I really can’t. On the plus side, I have been going running. Just not very far. Or very fast. Or for very long. Another note to self: just go to the freaking gym already. Seriously.
4. Not booking a holiday
In fairness, I hadn’t intended to book a winter holiday until much nearer the time, but seriously, it’s more or less ALL I’ve thought of this week, and that would be because IT HAS NOT STOPPED RAINING. At all. I have run in the rain. I have walked the dog in the rain. I have had ENOUGH of the freaking rain. And I’m not going to even try and explain how much this is depressing me right now, because I know you’ll all just comment and say, "Oh, you should be grateful it’s not warm and sunny right now, because that would suck!" and those kind of comments would probably push me over the edge.
So I took up the search for a winter break with a huge amount of enthusiasm. And then slowly I realised that all of the places I wanted to go are too expensive, and that I will only get to visit them this winter if it turns out there actually is a money tree, and I get to shake it first. Turns out those two weeks in Florida in June really were the only sunshine/warmth on offer this year. Wah!
On a brighter note, though:
Got Fluff? Because I sure have. Terry got it for me from the Internet, which meant that this afternoon there was a knock on the door and I got to take delivery of a big box o’fluff. Yay Terry!
OK, that’s it, I’m going on holiday. I mean, I had to switch on the heating today, people. In August. August. And so it’s been decided: I will not endure another year in which I get only two weeks of sunshine. No, I will have THREE weeks of sunshine – maybe even four. And I will even travel on an airplane to get it. As long as it wasn’t purchased at Toys-R-Us, obviously.
But where to go? Well, we’re looking at going somewhere in December. This is something of a tradition for Terry and I, who always used to take a week’s break around the time of our anniversary (the anniversary of when we started dating, that is, not our wedding anniversary. Because there’s no way I’m waiting until March for my sun.) right up until Terry got ill, when we had to stop for obvious reasons.
This year, however, the tradition is being resurrected. So we need to find somewhere that’s:
a) Hot in December. This rules out Europe because culture is all well and good, but I’m sitting here wearing two cardigans, so, you know GIVE ME HEAT. Heeeeeeeat.
b) Not too long a flight. We may go for two weeks, in which case I’d be willing to stretch it up to nine or so hours, say, but we may only be able to manage a week, in which case it’s five hours max. I still carry with me the memories of our week-long stay in Vegas, during which I spent most of my time feeling dizzy and almost hallucinating with exhaustion and jet lag (although that may just be the effect Vegas has, obviously). Every night we’d sit down and consider the huge variety of evening entertainment Vegas had to offer… and then we’d have a quick dinner and go to bed because GOD, were we tired. So, no hugely long flights. This rules out California, obviously, so don’t even mention it 
c) Ridiculously cheap. Like laughably cheap. We’re willing to settle for the most basic of accommodation, as long as it’s clean, and not inside a war zone or something. Really, we just want some SUN. Oh, sun, how we miss you so!
So, yeah, I’m thinking we’ll probably end up in the Canaries again. But if anyone has any other suggestions they’d like to share with the group, let the sharing begin…
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