Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny

While a more accommodating bikini might skim and flatter your curves as you prance around in front of the mirror at home (ahem) it will be fuck all use to you as you splash around in the surf on a Basque beach. You'll end up with one hand frantically hoisting up the bra in a vain effort to reposition it over your nipples while the other hand grabs at the side of your knickers, trying to preserve your modesty but succeeding in keeping just one arse cheek covered while the other is not-so-tantalisingly exposed by the drooping, sodden lycra.

No, there are no photos.

Scuba Steve

After mam's dramatics, my day improved. Pretending to be musicians, my brother and I blagged our way into one of the gigs (this one, as it featured my love interest from that weekend in An Cheathrú Rua...). Typical me, The Festival of World Cultures and there I am, hanging out in the Gaeilge tent. From there we headed up to catch a bit of Dónal Dineen's set in one of the hotels and again, typical me, I ended up drinking in the car park instead and talking to random strangers. Interesting ones though; these boys. I must keep an eye out for their work.

From there we got a lift into town from a kind if directionally challenged friend (we ended up taking a spin in the wrong direction down Harcourt St's Luas line but beggars can't be choosers- the queue for a taxi in Dun Laoghaire would make your eyes water). On to the POD for a bit of a Pogo and more vodka than was strictly necessary, and then my brother and I barrelled drunkenly into Aprila's chipper, in Portobello, for a bite of dinner. Civilised drunkards that we are, we strolled down the leafy-with-love banks of the Grand Canal and sat down on a bench to enjoy our fare. I had just stood up to shake the curry chips out of my skirt and start for home when I noticed a figure about 20 yards away, standing on the path and wretchedly puking on his own shoes. "Look at this poor fucker!" I exclaimed in glee (always fun to see someone drunker than yourself) and my brother craned his head for a gawk, just in time to see the poor sot pitch head first off the footpath into the canal.

I ran to his rescue, with all the grace of a flat chested C.J. Parker. Just as I reached the spot he'd launched from, a hand shot up from the reeds, and then another. He struggled to standing in the 2ft deep water, huffing and puffing, and breaking his bollix laughing. I helped him out, and backup arrived (in curry-chip stained jeans and a fit of the giggles). "Are you alright, mate?" More giggles. From all three of us. He began fishing various sodden items from the pockets of his biker's jacket, a dripping mobile phone, wet banknotes, smelly canal weed. I asked him if he'd far to go and he explained -with the frank honesty of the truly drunk- that he was close to home, he'd been drinking in The Barge Pub and had just wandered down "for a dump". How glad am I that he wasn't mid shite when he toppled in. "Have you a pen and paper?" he asked. "Take my name and address, and remind me that this happened. Not tomorrow though, in a while, like. Maybe next year. No, in three years time. My name's Stephen, Stephen Boyle. Nice to meet yiz."

I made him promise to walk on the lower path, away from the water, and he staggered off, leaving a dripping trail and laughing spastically to himself. I hope he made it home.

Operation Lardarse

Vodka has calories! Lots of them! Who knew?

The last month or so of merrymaking has taken its toll on my already less than shapely figure, so now that I've three weeks to kill before I head off on my travels again I've decided to hop on the wagon and lay off the booze (midweek, anyway) and make a conscious effort to lose some podge. Only eating every second day because you've a hangover does not count as a diet, and walking up a few flights of stairs a day is not a substitute for exercise. Yes, there are my amazing bicycling adventures, but let's face it, that's 20 minutes a day. If I walk (oh, the halcyon days when it wasn't pissing rain and I could skip to work and wink at boys on the way!) it's an hour's round trip, which is decent, but given the fine Irish summer we're having, the bike tends to win out.

So this afternoon I decided to expand my repertoire and indulge in my favourite form of exercise, sadly abandoned some months back when our office relocated (it meant that Solas was on my route home -ish- instead of the Markievicz pool). Back in the happy days of my unemployment I swam every day in the local gym's pool, 60 lengths each (mid)morning. Between the gainful employment and the social life I can afford as a result, my standards have slipped and though I made the occasional trip to the Markievicz, it was always a bit half-hearted.

Not so today's expedition. Because you'd have to be pretty fucking determined to go swimming in the public pool in Rathmines. I used my googlemachine to search for photos, but apparently nobody's been that brave.

In fairness, it could have been worse. I didn't swallow any band-aids, and my feet haven't sprouted verrucas just yet. What alarmed me more than the place itself was my attitude to it. When did I become so middle class? I was one of those verrucaed kids, splashing merrily and leaving a trail of scabby plasters in my wake. Suddenly I seem to have morphed into one of those strange birds who strips off to use the communal showers, rather than leaving her togs on to preserve her modestly like any decent god fearin' woman. Though I blame the Belarusian trip for that. Bloody communal showers and lowered inhibitions. I had em off and was merrily lathering my hair before I copped that everyone else was dressed, and staring.

Anyway, other than my Venusian body giving the other water babies a bit of a scare the trip was a relative success. I forgot a hairbrush though, and the fact that public pools tend not to have mirrors or hairdryers, so the half hour walk home had given me a Wurzel Gummidge do by the time I got there. I also had two very fetching rosy cheeks, scalded by the chlorine and the lack of moisturiser (which I had also neglected to bring, quelle surprise).

So there's work to be done, both on the planning and the execution (I didn't manage 60 lengths...). But it's a start.