Day 132
Holiday - Day Four
Before I start today’s post, there’s an amendment I have to make regarding yesterdays.
Absinthe is not potent.
It’s fucking lethal.
It also has some rather strange after effects.
I awoke early with a hangover far less severe than I deserved, immediately grabbed a bottle of Coca Cola from the fridge and guzzled a large mouthful to replace whatever liquids had evaporated from me during the night.
It tasted like absinthe.
Very odd.
I then brushed my teeth and discovered the toothpaste also had the same flavor.
. Figuring that I may have poured some liquor into the coke bottle in a childish attempt to fool Mrs. Snowman into thinking I was drinking less than I really was, I swallowed a few mouthfuls of bottled water to cleanse my palette and sure enough…absinthe.
On the face of it this would normally be seen as a good thing but there’s something far more sinister that should be taken into consideration.
It also acts as a mild laxative.
Combine this with the water supply and the word “mild” doesn’t even come close to describing the tropical hurricane that was developing in my stomach.
We were going to take the car on a sedate trip around the island, stopping only to have a quiet lunch and maybe find a peaceful spot to watch the ocean.
It didn’t quite work out that way.
Firstly we were two hours late leaving the hotel as I was practically glued to the bog and then I had to change my clothes as a revoltingly pungent stench had permeated into the material.
I finally managed to extract myself and tentatively walked to the bedroom several pounds lighter, wiping sweat from my face as I went.
Even with the balcony doors open and every window fully ajar the smell was unbearable. It was burrowing its way through the walls and killing mosquitoes buzzing around the lampshades.
Cruise liners were taking detours to avoid getting downwind of it.
After a brief argument with the current Mrs. Snowman that was interrupted by another very animated trip to the toilet, we hopped in the car and spent a few hours exploring every public convenience within a thirty-mile radius.
The row didn’t concern where we should go or what we should see but rather her unwavering determination to once more provide directions.
As I didn’t think it wise to get involved in a heated debate that could potentially involve an internal slippage, I reluctantly conceded and pointed out it might be a prudent idea to plan our route through mainly uninhabited areas.
She agreed and twenty minutes later we were in the middle of Palma, the largest city on the island.
With the possible exceptions of Paris and Milan, I’ve never driven anywhere quite so scary and, given the state of my bowels, this was not perhaps the best place to get caught in a traffic jam.
At one point I simply skidded the car to a halt at the side of the road and ran into a bar holding my arse with both hands while shouting over my shoulder to the barman in my faltering Spanish that it was an environmental emergency.
Rather than giving you any further details of a truly horrible afternoon, I will relay the much better news that I found a pharmacy and purchased three packs of super-strength Imodium. By the evening the medication had taken effect and I was even able to indulge in the luxury of a fart without worrying about the need to be hosed down immediately afterwards.
Needless to say, we didn’t make it to the bar and find out if the guys we met yesterday managed to get their poker game organized and instead ordered some toast from room service for dinner. I wasn’t brave enough to try anything more exotic.
Yummy.
As the sunshine of the day merged into night and, in between further visits to the bathroom, I put a Santana CD on, sat on the balcony with a glass of green and watched a stunning pastel sunset.
I shall dose myself full of Imodium during the night in the hope it will construct some sort of barrier between my stomach and my backside. With any luck I’ll be bunged up for the remainder of the vacation.
Indeed, after today I don’t care if I fail to have another shit for the rest of the month.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $ Not my main point of concern.
Before I start today’s post, there’s an amendment I have to make regarding yesterdays.
Absinthe is not potent.
It’s fucking lethal.
It also has some rather strange after effects.
I awoke early with a hangover far less severe than I deserved, immediately grabbed a bottle of Coca Cola from the fridge and guzzled a large mouthful to replace whatever liquids had evaporated from me during the night.
It tasted like absinthe.
Very odd.
I then brushed my teeth and discovered the toothpaste also had the same flavor.
. Figuring that I may have poured some liquor into the coke bottle in a childish attempt to fool Mrs. Snowman into thinking I was drinking less than I really was, I swallowed a few mouthfuls of bottled water to cleanse my palette and sure enough…absinthe.
On the face of it this would normally be seen as a good thing but there’s something far more sinister that should be taken into consideration.
It also acts as a mild laxative.
Combine this with the water supply and the word “mild” doesn’t even come close to describing the tropical hurricane that was developing in my stomach.
We were going to take the car on a sedate trip around the island, stopping only to have a quiet lunch and maybe find a peaceful spot to watch the ocean.
It didn’t quite work out that way.
Firstly we were two hours late leaving the hotel as I was practically glued to the bog and then I had to change my clothes as a revoltingly pungent stench had permeated into the material.
I finally managed to extract myself and tentatively walked to the bedroom several pounds lighter, wiping sweat from my face as I went.
Even with the balcony doors open and every window fully ajar the smell was unbearable. It was burrowing its way through the walls and killing mosquitoes buzzing around the lampshades.
Cruise liners were taking detours to avoid getting downwind of it.
After a brief argument with the current Mrs. Snowman that was interrupted by another very animated trip to the toilet, we hopped in the car and spent a few hours exploring every public convenience within a thirty-mile radius.
The row didn’t concern where we should go or what we should see but rather her unwavering determination to once more provide directions.
As I didn’t think it wise to get involved in a heated debate that could potentially involve an internal slippage, I reluctantly conceded and pointed out it might be a prudent idea to plan our route through mainly uninhabited areas.
She agreed and twenty minutes later we were in the middle of Palma, the largest city on the island.
With the possible exceptions of Paris and Milan, I’ve never driven anywhere quite so scary and, given the state of my bowels, this was not perhaps the best place to get caught in a traffic jam.
At one point I simply skidded the car to a halt at the side of the road and ran into a bar holding my arse with both hands while shouting over my shoulder to the barman in my faltering Spanish that it was an environmental emergency.
Rather than giving you any further details of a truly horrible afternoon, I will relay the much better news that I found a pharmacy and purchased three packs of super-strength Imodium. By the evening the medication had taken effect and I was even able to indulge in the luxury of a fart without worrying about the need to be hosed down immediately afterwards.
Needless to say, we didn’t make it to the bar and find out if the guys we met yesterday managed to get their poker game organized and instead ordered some toast from room service for dinner. I wasn’t brave enough to try anything more exotic.
Yummy.
As the sunshine of the day merged into night and, in between further visits to the bathroom, I put a Santana CD on, sat on the balcony with a glass of green and watched a stunning pastel sunset.
I shall dose myself full of Imodium during the night in the hope it will construct some sort of barrier between my stomach and my backside. With any luck I’ll be bunged up for the remainder of the vacation.
Indeed, after today I don’t care if I fail to have another shit for the rest of the month.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $ Not my main point of concern.