Spanish waiters.

katyUncategorized1 Comment

After a week away in Spain I would like to say I am back in the country feeling rested and rejuvenated. Unfortunately not, I spent the week eating my own body weight in carbohydrates, drank more Vina Sol than I thought humanly possible and managed, in the quietest village on the Costa Brava to have sex with a Spanish waiter. This wouldn’t be such a bad thing bar the fact I am a 34-year-old mother with (alleged) self-respect and I can’t help but wonder if, just maybe, I might be a touch old for such unruly behaviour. The carbs and booze are one thing but a Spanish waiter? Honestly, how very English.

It is little wonder us Brits have such a colourful reputation when it comes to going on holiday. I’ll be the first to admit that even after a 7 month sex, nay, total physical contact drought, nothing was going to get me fired up like tequila or 5 and a bit of sun. I blame the weather in this country for my sudden promiscuity. Who wouldn’t want to get naked and streak the beaches of the Med when we are in near total darkness for about 8 months of the year? In winter I can barely drag myself out of the house without 3 bobbly sweaters, 2 pairs of M&S 60 deniers, a 10 year old pasmina and Uggs (though I swear to myself every season I won’t buy a pair and always do…I wonder sometimes if the manufacturers are tracking the interest rates of Wall Street c.1986 the amount they go up every year) make-up; forget it, matching underwear; you’re on hallucienic drugs.

Every winter I promise myself I will make more of an effort, but the idea of exposing my dimply white flesh to even a Vietnamese illegal immigrant for a wax and pedicure sends my nerves to tatters. I have considered learning Vietnamese just so I can understand the staff at Top Nails slagging my bunions off. Fortunately for my confidence the girls at my local nail bar think nothing of bursting out laughing as soon as I expose my winter feet, nothing like a mid January pick me up than a Lil Kim look alike calling everyone over to look at you’re over grown big toe.

And so what happens? I become a chipped nail, flaky legged yeti, growling from the confines of my cave living off litres red wine and scraps of X factor. I exaggerate slightly, but you get it; I do not like winter.

And then comes the sun, that big beautiful mother of all happiness and rose spritzers and everyone looks better. Gorgeous girls and boys, all tanned limbs and big smiles outside busy pubs, chatting and flirting. Sweet Jesus I get mildly aroused on a sun bed, is it any surprise we all get pissed and start shagging each other when the suns out? The English are at the mercy of those ever powerful UV rays, You of course wouldn’t try and ask a Spanish waiter to understand it, having lived with the goddess in the sky his whole life but, and here’s the science bit, a British lass straddling a sunbed at 4.30 in the morning after 3 jugs of Sangria should not be labelled a drunkard tart or Flighty blighty, chastised by the Daily Mail as a disgrace to our mother land, she is, in fact, suffering from something far more complex, a case of temporary sun insanity. An inexplicable sexual condition brought on by the sudden combined exposure to UV rays, intoxicating substances and Hawaiian tropic factor 15. A drunkard English girl with her knickers round her ankles, god no, I’m just a little poorly.

katySpanish waiters.

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