Gloat over

Well my gloat was rather short-lived; there is currently about a foot of snow outside and I haven't left the house for 3 days because both the children have nasty colds. All the tissues have gone and we are running low on food because we had house-guests for a long weekend, but I can't get the car out because the garage is at the bottom of a snow-bound slope and the shovel is broken. I am considering strapping some tennis rackets to our feet, tying us all together with ropes and striking out for the nearest Spar shop before I find myself having to serve up dog food and honey for dinner as that's all I can find in the larder.

Actually, I am exaggerating slightly, I think I am suffering from a mild dose of cabin fever brought on by the back-to-back Disney movies and never-ending bleep-bleep-ding-ding of the Nintendo DS. I did manage to get Pickle into the garden to make a snowman yesterday, although our masterpiece was buried overnight in another blizzard and all you can see now are the tips of the little stick arms poking out of the mound. At least when the telly gets boring there is plenty of entertainment right outside the window as people try to drive up the hill without sliding back down again.

So since I last managed to muster some blogging energy I have aged a whole year! Well, technically all I had was a birthday but I definitely feel old having only managed 3 cocktails on Valentines night before I lost the use of my legs. Which was not convenient right before a night-time ten-pin-bowling session; I hardly did justice to my boast that 'I used to bowl for my university' when I couldn't even scrape 100 points. Oh well, it was fun to get out and about thanks to my folks offering to babysit while they were staying. You can tell my Mum's been here just by checking out my laundry room - the ironing mountain is no more and the place is neat and tidy, definitely not my handiwork. And you can tell my Dad's been here because Pickle's singing and dancing mouse is working again and the quick crossword puzzle in the weekly newspaper that's been baffling us for days is complete. In return we have whisked them round a couple of Budapest tourist attractions - the banks of the Danube, the Houses of Parliament and crown jewels, the Castle District, Kika furniture store - taken them for dinner at TGI Fridays, lunch at Trofea and playtime chez nous complete with Barbie, Lego and Uno Extreme. All in sub-zero temperatures and howling winds I might add; despite getting out before the snow came the poor things have still been treated to the sort of weather that would make a polar bear prefer to stay indoors with a good book.

For my birthday treat Nobby bought me a treatment package at the local Thai massage emporium known as 'Paradise'. I read on the web site that I was in for 2 hours of exfoliation, deep Thai massage and a complementary cup of herbal tea. What I wasn't expecting was to be stripped naked and rubbed with turmeric by a surprisingly strong Thai lady in sweat pants and a vest. She then ordered me into a shower to rinse off all my scummy exfoliated dead skin then proceeded to jump on the treatment bed with me, all the better to use her entire body weight to methodically pummel my every muscle and crack my fingers and toes into alignment. I have to say I wasn't expecting at first to get very relaxed with a total stranger knelt between my legs with only a scrap of sarong covering my dignity - there is clearly no room for English prudery in a Thai massage cubicle. But I think the fact she had to shake me awake at the end of the two hours to drink my cup of tea is proof enough that the session was entirely what the doctor ordered.

I emerged from the establishment on my own private cloud of happiness, marvelling at how the exotic aromas of the lotions and potions she'd used were lingering with me. Until I reached out my hand to open the door to the supermarket and saw that it was bright yellow. It was then I realised the exotic aroma was coming from me, I was still somewhat dripping in turmeric - add a little coconut milk and I would have been mistaken for a Thai curry. I think that post-exfoliation shower was supposed to be more than a 'rinse' - that would explain the family sized bottle of shower gel in there which I neglected to use on the basis that I was enjoying the aromatherapy side of the experience and didn't want to smell of Imperial Leather instead. A quick trip to the ladies room in the supermarket and five frantic hand-washes did nothing to shift any of the yellow but at least I could check it wasn't on my face as well. I've never tried shopping with my hands in my pockets before, it was not the day to have forgotten my gloves. Perhaps the lady at the till just assumed I had a bad case of jaundice. For once I was grateful for the language barrier so I could just play the peculiar foreigner with the yellow hands. My parents, on the other hand, found me hilarious to behold and helped me roll up my jeans to check whether I truly looked like a banana all over. I've had several showers since and my toes still have a golden hue to them. But I would definitely go back for another pummelling.

Happy Birthday to me!