Aruba

Sometimes I wish Lauren Bacall, Bette Davis or, at a push, Bette Middler were starring as a perfect me in the film of my perfect life, with the real me hiding behind the curtain. 

48 hours ago I learnt, to my delight, that I’d meet somone, for the first time, lunchtime today. Resigned to the inevitable I was waiting for a spot or a rash to appear in a prominent place.

It’s far worse. My right eye has flared up and is now shining red. So either I’ll find a cucumber to cool it all down or just pray and hope the gentleman in question won’t notice; a vain hope since I already know that he is a very observant man.

Yes, first impressions. I’ll probably wear something orange to distract from the disaster. And, no, I can’t find my sunglasses.

Pause – for a long time. And yes I did wear an orange number. Fast forward several hours; past lunch. I was all set trying to be at my most poised and ladylike to meet an English man abroad, normally resident in Port of Spain/Trinidad; him taking the trouble to drive all the way down from London to see me.

One nosebleed and a lost wallet including credit cards later (both mine), my phantasy fell a little short of the ideal. Tears had smugded my eye make up, the wind – predictably - had made me look like a witch – and to my shame the poor man had to pay for lunch. He has promised to come again.

Felix wants his laptop back. So the story ends here.

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