Yes, it’s hot. Yes, it’s not exactly heavy on the culture front. But oh, how fabulous. This hotel is magnificent. The sea is sublime, bathwatery warm, with talcum-powder sand, and the prettiest shells. And the food is waist-explodingly, diet-bustingly excellent. We’re going up the world’s tallest building on Monday. Not too shabby. Heading out for a spot of exploring now, then back in time for afternoon tea. Now that’s what I call a proper holiday. What ho!

In the good old days, I liked adventures, and travelling, and foreign grub. Now I am old, and tired, and no longer always constipated. Batman and I have spent our holiday fund on new plastic windows and doors (how exciting) and a new car (for him, natch), and so the trip Over There has hit the skids.  We’ve passed the last two months saying, gaily, “Oh yes, we’re off in August, but nothing booked, you know! Probably go to Mexico!” (Not the S. American one, of course.)

That was fine, until it rained all day on Friday. Hard. Unceasingly. I couldn’t take it any more. The Hindernet, a valid credit card, and a wet Friday was a bad combination.

So we’re going on holidays tomorrow. Packed? No. I spent the day de-cluttering my wardrobe. Why did you let me wear those things? Batman, smug *so-and-so*, leapt out of bed and packed, with a song on his lips and joy in his heart. I don’t like packing any more, so instead I made Mars Bar buns, put clothes in piles for: charity shop, back to wardrobe, clothes recycling and what-the-Hell-was-I-thinking? So where are we going? Remember tourist-trap-Thailand last year? Well, this year, the plan is: Rest. Sunshine. And no Temples to trudge around. Think culture: zero. Heat: stinking. Humidity: very low. Food: lots (within the bounds of Ramadan). Need to trot around The Sights: absolutely none.

We’re off to Dubai. I never thought I’d see the day, but there you are. Normal service will resume after the hols. Be good, y’all.

I really do. What an ungrateful prat(t). (I’m not sure of the number of ‘t’ required.) Batman and I moved hotel today, which was planned to give a change of scenery. We’re staying in The Banyan Tree, which I’m naming just so’s you can Google it and realise why I have been such a lemon. Oh My Giddy Aunt. You should see this place. We’re here ’cause there was a superfantastic deal on Agodadotcom, a website I can’t recommend highly enough.

This hotel might just be the most amazing place on the planet.

We have an outdoor jacuzzi (which I’ve broken already by fiddling with the buttons), a totally mind-blowing room (and it’s the standard one), and when they saw our passport names were different, they decided we must be on honeymoon: so sent a gift and a bottle of fizzy stuff. I’m now so relaxed that I can hardly speak. Batman is thrilled. Of course, it’s not a holiday without my favourite radio station…which we’re listening to on the Internet. The only one tiny problem is that Batman has a mosquito bite. You’d really think that a superhero wouldn’t complain about such a little thing, but then – you’d be surprised. *tee hee*

We’re happily in Phuket, which is happy for two reasons:

1. The weather/hotel/husband time is all most pleasant. (If a bit hot.)

2. We almost almost almost – (like I was just about to click “Buy Flights” and phoned Bats for one last check and he said, “Let’s go someplace else!”) – were on that Bangkok Airways flight to Koh Samui. You know, the one that crashed? Thank God.  

Phuket’s hot, horribly touristy and I don’t intend to ever come back . I may as well be in Portrush (or similar), in Novemeber. It’s even raining today. I don’t mind the rain, or the countless offers of suiting, taxiing, tuktuking, massaging or nourishment. It’s more just something about me; I can’t quite put my finger on it. I think (and I say this with genuine sadness) that my insatiable desire to go places and see stuff and investigate interestingness...well, maybe I have reached satiety. I’ve wanted to go to Thailand for so long, but it’s the old story: everyone else is here already. It’s a great holiday, a good rest and some nice relaxation, but that’s about it. Or am I missing the point?

(Of course, when I come home, it’ll be the most amazing holiday I’ve ever had, right? I mean, that’s the inflexible rule of holidaying: unless there is a major disaster e.g. amoebic dysentery, then it’s the best holiday ever. Disaster is worth it for the mileage.)

(In other interesting stuff, usually my reading materials are ready and waiting for at least two weeks before a holiday. This time, last-minute-Sally was in WH Smith at Heathrow – did there used to be a different bookshop? That one is crap. Anyway, my new copy of Michael Palin’s Hemingway Adventure gets to page eighty-something and then there’s about forty pages of some other book entirely…and then smoothly back to page 121. I’ve missed a whole continent and at least one wife.)

Right. I’m away to eat ice-cream, and possibly lollop in the pool. Although not simultaneously.

Hey y’all. The Batmans are currently on tour, after some very frazzled work stuff for about three weeks before we left. It was so bad that I was fielding calls (and stressing) during our connection time in Heathrow. Anyway. I’m not really that important; I’m just not very good at organising any more than one person (me). Poor Batman has been utterly neglected.

So we’re off on our summer holidays, and arrived in Bangkok on Thursday. So far, all good, if a little weird. Gorgeous hotel? Check. Sultry Asian weather? Check (although the taxi driver protested yesterday that it was cold. I suppose if 31C and very sweaty is your idea of cold…). Accidental detour into the less salubrious end of town? Check. Batman offered many, many, deeply disturbing things in a very short space of time. Don’t worry, though, Dear Readers, I defended his honour.

Apparently Thai coffee, a tarlike substance filtered into a tin cup and sweetened with sugar and condensed milk, is strong enough to start a dead man’s heart. I’d believe it, and I’ll tell you this for free: it’s no surprise they drink it like that, given the way they drive. I hadn’t been in a tuk tuk for five or six years, and I’d forgotten exactly how disturbing they are for someone with such an ultra-developed sense of self-preservation as me.

We’ve had a couple of weird experiences. Well, one a day so far: first was dinner in rather a nice Japanese restaurant. The ceiling had alternate wide and narrow panels of wood, and gasps from the next table alerted us to the slow descent of the end of one of the long panels. That was fine – it just came down as if hinged. Until…a rather well-fed rat looked through the hole. Yes. To her credit, the Manageress climbed on a stool and duct-taped the panel back in place. Dinner continued as if this was perfectly normal. To be fair, it was a nice dinner.

Yesterday, we tried the night market (dreadful rubbish). It was worth two pounds, though, for 15 minutes of the most interesting therapy I have ever had: immersing feet in tanks of little fish, which nibbled delicately at the toes to remove dead skin. They all looked rather bloated after they’d finished with my crocodile-like appendages.

Oh, and Thai massage? You know how you get scented oils, relaxing music and de-stressing? No. You get a two-piece pyjama affair and a small woman kneeling on your back whilst trying to dislocate your head. She attacked me with medicinal vigour and the no-pain-no-gain mentality of a true sadist. She clicked my toes and I almost had to be worked with. Smelling salts all round. The scary part was when she had her steely thumbs drilling into both temples. With a strange detachment, I realised that if she just pressed ever so slightly harder, my skull would splinter like crockery and impale my stupefied brain. She was One Tough Lady. Of course, she was so delicate of figure and feature that she looked like she’d break in two if she sneezed.

Right, it’s day three and I need some more weird. Out we go!

Had a lovely day off yesterday. Had to abandon my sightseeing plans after a spa session that left me rubbery-legged and deliciously snoozy. Sat in the sun instead, with a book. Hotel people seem to think I am a little odd. But the young barman did his darned best to chat me up, until he realised that a teetotaller was unlikely to improve his takings much. So he transferred his attentions to the two girls from Calgary, who had arrived in dangerous form after falling out with their boyfriends. I was then involved in the speculations between him and the restaurant manager, in the role of Senior Female. It was all quite fun.

Did my bestest to get a small change in skin pigmentation yesterday. Batman and I recently had a lovely weekend in Bath, and when I was muttering I’d caught the sun, he said, “Good! It’s been like hanging out with Emily Brontë!” I think he was a leetle tired of all the Jane Austen business. I, of course, was in raptures.

Speaking of which, as part of my nice day off, I got my camera out again. I’ve missed this.

I’m currently Really Quite Far Away, to go to a conference. It starts on Wednesday, and I have a slightly questionable paper to present on Saturday. (Questionable as it contains some extra work done by my successor, and so I am apparently to talk about Western Blots, about which I know nothing. Fortunately, there are multiple, gaily-coloured graphs and that may distract the slavering beasts lovely people.

I had a rotten run at work, and was on call on Thursday night. It’s a rule that, the more you need the night to go peacefully, the worse it is. There’s also a rule about not buying any reading material on call, bringing any work or studying to do, and never, ever saying the “Q” word. Predictably, it was an appallingly busy night. I got home at 01.00am, packed until 02.20am, got into bed until 03.00am and then up and out until 04.40am. Two hours’ sleep, then a full day’s work. And the last patient of the day was almost an hour late. Typical. Went to Gotham on Friday night, to spend some little time with the lovely Batman, then onwards on Saturday.

It was a slightly bad sign that there was an announcement as I was boarding that if there was a doctor on board, would they please come to the rear galley. Being an all-round public spirited type (who never learns), I set my bag down on 27H beside a random fat man, and continued to the back. A young man wasn’t feeling too good – I think a combination of tiredness, stomach upset and a very strong travel-sickness pill on already dodgy innards. He didn’t look up to the flight, anyway, and the rather overwhelmingly scary thing is that as soon as I said this, it was unquestioningly followed. Paramedics, the captain, the ambulance…to be fair, he had to be half-carried off the plane and I’m sure it was the right thing to do, but delaying a transatlantic flight for over an hour on my say-so must rank as one of the more nerve-wracking things I’ve done. Cue embarrassing amounts of gratitude, seeing as I really was only doing what I am morally and ethically obliged to do. “Where are you sitting?” asked the Chief Crew Lady. “Let’s get your things, as we have a seat for you in Business Class.” Now, believe it or not, I did truly attempt a protest, but when she said, “No, I won’t hear of it and the Captain has instructed that you move,” well…

Nine-and-a-half hours on a flat-bed seat, meals from china plates and one of those fancy TV things – oh, life was very good. Very good indeed. I’ll leave you with my husband’s response: “You jammy get!!”

So I’m at the airport, delayed by over an hour. My dinner will be in the dog by the time I get to Gotham. I’ve just spent £1.90 on some pretty deplorable coffee – I gave it up for Lent last year, but when I suggested it this time, Batman put his boot down and absolutely forbade it. Anyone would think I was a grumpy bitch.
In other news, as I’ve been utterly underwhelmed by solicitous messages re. the rash, gee, thanks. You three are all I have to depend on. Anyway. Rash has gone, joint pains are a bit better, but now there’s quite the tender lump on my left wrist. I’m beginning to think I might need to see a proper doctor.
In other annoyances, I’m on the 7.50-delayed-to-9pm flight, which has yet to materialise. The actually-supposed-to-be-9pm flight is now boarding. Am I being stoopid, or could we not all have gone together? There aren’t that many people on it. Sigh. 

Yes, dear Readers, it’s 11.03pm and I am blogging packing again, this time for a short Busman’s holiday. Fortunately, I will not be the only doctor, as I’m not very good any more at complicated things like hearts and breathing. Ingrowing toenails, I’m your girl. Or something like that. I checked the weather forecast, and it’s for too-hot and almost incessant rain. Rather sultry weather, as my aunt used to say. I am packing a raincoat and two large bags of bandages and sticking plasters. I am in charge of the sticking plasters.

Had a lovely dinner tonight with the sister and her young man, enlivened when I flicked some rice at my sister, but missed. It hit the waiter, which was fortunate on one level, as otherwise it’d have landed in a gentleman’s dinner. I did feel utterly dreadful about hitting the waiter, but he didn’t notice and I left a large and guilty tip.

Right, really must pack. Be good. I’ll say a prayer for you all.

Overnight flights, IMHO, are a hallmark of a barbarian society. I hate them. I trailed out of bed yesterday morning at 6.30am, for an 8.55am flight to Newark. Not too bad. I then had a little over ten hours in which to kick my heels. Plan A: hang around the airport and see how long it took to acheive Terminal Boredom (Gettit? Clever, no?) was replaced the night before with Plan B: New York New York. I was there once before, almost ten years ago, and absolutely hated it. Not this time. In quick succession, I:
1. Had lunch in an excellent Irish pub, on the instructions of Mammy. (“Go to an Irish pub and you will find someone to talk to!”) So I went to Tír na nÓg, and it was great.
2. On the instructions of the very nice waitress, I went and took some photos of the Empire State Building.
3. Thunder, lightning and torrential rain forced me into Macy’s. Alas.

4. Bopped to the tunes and enjoyed the eye candy at the Gay Pride parade. Why are all the handsome ones (apart from Batman)..?

5. Lit a candle in St Patrick’s most fabulous Cathedral.

6. Sloshed into Central Park in yet more rain.

7. Taxi back through Times Square to Penn Station, and train back to Newark.

Tired? I was. It was outstandingly fun. The night flight to Astro City was fine, but I don’t travel well and feel like yakking on the floor when I get off. In fact, sometimes I do. (Not on the floor.) Home now, tea’d and toasted and going to bed right now.