Planes, Horses and Automobiles

Our Icelandic holiday has had some transportation issues.

The first mode to rear its ugly head – and they don’t come much uglier – was flying. Yes, we flew to Iceland and, surprise, surprise, we flew back, much to the consternation of my email inbox, which must now contain every possible perm and com of: You didn’t fly did you; I trust you didn’t fly; Please tell me you didn’t fly; and You did what?

My conscience however is clear. This is the first time I’ve flown since January 2020 (thank you, Covid) and I won’t be flying again until at least 2024. The only reason I do fly is because Hubby wants to, and as he does loads-a stuff he doesn’t want to that I want to, we give and take and compromise, a concept that is alien to the wokerati, Remainers and the aviation industry.

Nine lives later

When one goes on holiday at my time of life (think hot flushes and temper tantrums), one looks to relax in beautiful, fascinating and safe environments. One does not expect to spend an entire day in a state of stomach-churning anxiety, wishing one had packed Diazepam as well as Stugeron.

I'm thinking of doing something naughty

This is how I imagine BoJo broached a subject with Lord Geidt, who recently resigned as the Government’s ethics adviser because, he claims, the Prime Minister put him in an "impossible and odious position.”

The usual BoJo Backstabbers are, of course, in paroxysms of delight at this ‘cast-iron evidence’ that Bojo is a criminal. My working hypothesis is therefore the opposite: that BoJo is nothing of the sort, and his Backstabbers are too busy backstabbing to smell the coffee, see the light and analyse yet another situation remotely fairly and intelligently.

I think I'm in love

So many to choose from, but only one made the grade.

Firstly, it wasn’t the Icelandic tour guide with the biggest put-you-off-your-puffin builder’s bum I’ve seen in a long while. He needs to forgo carbs in a hurry if he wants to keep his job plodding up black (can I say that?) sandy cliffs with even more overweight tourists in his wake (not me and Hubby, I hasten to add).

And what about those puffins, eh? As if they couldn’t get any cuter, I learned (from the builder’s bum) that they don’t sit on their eggs; they tuck them under their wing to keep them warm. So much more heart-string-plucking than a Mills & Boon nausea-fest. But I’m not in love with puffins.

An embarrassing puffin-watch

Iceland’s a funny place. Parts of it remind me of the Lake District, others the Somerset Levels and the Mendips. Then there are landscapes that wouldn’t look out of place in a Mad Max movie or even Pirates of the Caribbean. (Johnny Depp won! Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

But the movie that comes to mind the most is Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds: oyster catchers, snipes, red shanks, kittiwakes, arctic terns, golden plovers, fulmers, whimbrels, knots. We saw them all. But we didn’t see any boobies.

Golliwoggs, and all that jazz

You might think it a tad premature – I haven’t even applied for probate yet – but we (me, Sis and Bro) have decided to put Mum and Dad’s bungalow on the market. Yes, Dear Reader, at the age of somewhere between 49 and 79, I am an orphan.