Tale As Old As Time

I once read that the most commonly used word in the English language is ‘time’.  It’s not surprising really, is it? Time controls everything and everyone- it’s one of the rare things that even Gary Barlow has no power over. I’d be willing to bet that you have recently wished that you could slow it down, speed it up, jump forward in it, and rewind it, haven’t you?  

So even if we could control time, would we know what to do with it? Perhaps we should just accept it for what it is.

The cast of my favourite musical advise the audience that you should savour the present because- apart from death and paying taxes- everything in life is only for now. They remind us that we can make it through the hard times because they won’t last forever, and that we should appreciate the good times for the same reason.

Unfortunately none of this makes me feel any better about my latest argument with time. In the next few weeks I am going to have to once again say goodbye to my latest adventure and the set of characters that have made it so amazing.

It feels as though it was only five minutes ago that I was writing about my heartbreak at leaving Ireland and now here I am, devastated as once again time takes over and moves me on- this time from France.

Anyone who has ever seen or spoken to me in the total of six months that I have spent in this beautiful resort in Loire Valley will tell you that to say that I enjoy my job is a huge understatement. Last year I was told during my end-of-season appraisal that it was ridiculous how happy I was- that everyone should be a little bit miserable when they are at work.

Now I’m not saying that there’s nothing I would change about my life here in France. My little princess arms were not designed for the long-distance carrying of heavy barrels/planks of wood/inflatable canoes. Nor was my bladder designed to live more than thirty seconds from the nearest toilet. In an ideal world I would have more than two minutes of internet access a week, my phone would work somewhere other than the one tree a five minute walk from my bedroom, and I would be able to get to the supermarket more often than once a month.

But, if time were willing to bargain with me, I would happily put up with all of the things that I complain about on a daily basis and stay here until February. I would continue to build arms to rival Popeye, live with my constant need for the toilet, and learn to love my repetitive and somewhat malnutritious diet.

Because- I remind myself as my sweaty body drops the huge canoe on the floor for the fifth time, waving to the three children who have been shouting my name for the past thirty seconds and smiling happily at the old couple walking past- some people don’t love their job ever, let alone for eight of the nine hours a day.

Yesterday afternoon I was skipping- yes, skipping- through the campsite with a huge smile on my face. I had a black nose and whiskers from my morning spent as a tiger, and spikes around my eyes from my afternoon as a dinosaur. When I arrived at the tent, Flynn Ryder- my colleague, housemate and new favourite person- put a La Bumpa on my head.

For those of you who are not familiar with La Bumpas they are very unflattering white and green helmets that fasten underneath your chin with Velcro. Their official use is to protect the wearer’s head during water activities such as canoeing and raft building but I, along with most of our guests, suspect that they are in fact designed simply to make the user look ridiculous in their holiday photos.

 As I stood outside the tent dressed as a tiger and a dinosaur, La Bumpa resting on my head and genuine smile fixed on my face, a guest looked over at me and laughed.

“You have a great life, don’t you?”

As he said it, I pictured my friends back home.

Two of my friends got married last weekend. Four others are celebrating their wedding anniversaries next month. Many have jobs in London: traders, legal secretaries, PAs. Most of my uni friends are teachers. Several have had babies. Lots have bought houses.

What did I do today?

I woke up this morning to the sound of Flynn doing his vocal exercises: a silly thing that we do in the morning as a result of watching too much of The Big Bang Theory. I went to the shop to buy us each a Pain Au Raisin and spent the next ten minutes being taught how to pronounce Pain Au Raisin. I dressed up as a tiger and decorated the tent like a jungle. I sang songs from The Lion King, did a silly chant about Romeo and Juliet, played ‘Lion, Lion, Hyena’ and ‘Tiger Cub’, and made my own snake. I spent the majority of my lunch break running away from Flynn as he attempted to blow raspberries on my ridiculously ticklish skin, before returning to work to help build a raft.

Following raft building I spent fifteen minutes defending myself and my team as the other (very competitive) instructors argued that we must have cheated because we won. I then proceeded to dress up as a dinosaur and stomp around the campsite roaring at the top of my voice and looking for The Missing Dinosaur Egg.  

My day involved the phrases ‘no we don’t eat bumblebees’, ‘I normally use a cauldron’ and ‘no, England isn’t the biggest planet but good guess.’

We have serious discussions about whether it would be better to live in space or under the sea; we refer to each other using superhero codenames and we sometimes have whole conversations in film quotes.

On our lunch breaks we go to the lake or the pool, the free gym or the bar. We spend our evenings having barbecues, watching the evening shows or doing party dances. We play a ridiculous number of games of Pool and we spend the majority of our time dressed up as endless characters from pirates, clowns and cowboys to detectives, aliens and wizards.

I spend so much time with people under the age of eleven that when Flynn hurt himself this morning I called him a silly sausage, rubbed it better and told him he was a brave soldier. Flynn is twenty years old.

I beamed up at the guest and answered: “I’ll grow up one day.”

But the whole exchange got me thinking.  

For a start it made me consider the differences between my life and the lives of the majority of my friends.

When is the right time to grow up? Should I have grown out of my pirate accent now and taken on a more serious, office-appropriate one?

Should I swap wandering around the pool for waltzing up the aisle? Should I give up acting like a child to have my own?

I considered how my friends feel about their lives and considered how I feel about mine, and found that time appears to affect everyone differently. The majority of my friends love their grown up lives. They love the money, their relationships, their independence and the direction in which time is sending them. Meanwhile I love my child-like lifestyle. I love the lack of responsibility, the fun and the memories that I am creating.

My colleagues Flynn, Lumiere and Peter Pan are of varying ages surrounding mine, and all feel the same about their lives as I do about my own: reassuring me that time isn’t running out, that as long as I, and those around me, are happy, that’s all that matters.

The exchange also got me reflecting on the wonderful summer that is soon to end.

 When I told people that I was to return to the job and the resort that made me so happy last year I was warned that it wouldn't be the same. That I might ruin last year’s memories and regret it.

I decided against thinking about it too much. The way I saw it was that this is a place and a job that made me so happy last year: returning is guaranteed happiness.

As you already know from reading the beginning of this entry- I was right.

I have been just as happy this year, have met just as amazing people and have made just as special memories. From out-of-the-mouths-of-babes moments to wish-I-had-the-camera moments, singing, dancing and laughing moments to ground-swallow-me-up moments, this is a summer that will stay with me forever and that I will treasure until I’m as old as Beauty and the Beast’s Crazy Old Maurice.

Here are a few examples of why…

1.     Sport-themed Pub Golf: The Camping Edition.

As soon as Lumiere heard that Flynn Ryder was turning twenty whilst we were here, she sprang into action to organise everyone into enjoying themselves. For those of you who were not already aware, the staff accommodation here is made up of two rows of tents directly opposite each other: creating what Lumiere refers to as Staff Village. Each tent contains two members of staff who share a kitchen and live area but have their own bedroom.

On Flynn’s birthday each tent was required to choose a pub-style name for their establishment, offer one drink to each member of staff, and decorate the tent according to the theme of the name. For example Lumiere, being French, opened the tent that she shares with Nala as The Champagne Chateau: decorating the walls with huge pictures of old castles and offering champagne to each member of staff.

Every person, at Flynn’s request, dressed as a sportsperson and proceeded to go to each tent, drink the beverage offered as soon as possible, pose for pictures and move on.

Once every drink had been consumed the excited party moved to the bar where everyone proceeded to dance together until the lights were turned on and the floor was being swept around us.

 My memories of this night involve a lot of laughing, and I have no doubt that the pictures will continue to make me smile into my eighties.

2.       Killer.

It was a beautiful Monday afternoon. I was wandering past The Champagne Chateau when my name was screamed and I was asked to go over to Lumiere and pick three pieces of paper from three cups in her room. Continuing with the theme of organised fun, Lumiere had decided to start a game of Killer. Each member of staff followed the same pattern as me, leaving them holding three pieces of paper: one naming a person within the team, another naming a location, and the third naming a piece of equipment. We were required to ‘murder’ our named person in the stated location with the piece of equipment. We had twelve days to do it in without being murdered ourselves. Once we were murdered we passed on our own task to our murderer.

Flynn helped me to murder Rafiki in the lake with a spoon within three days. Set on winning, I was extra careful about where I went and with whom, when one day- five days into the game- a package arrived for me. Eeyore insisted that I go to pick it up from reception as he picked up his washing tokens. I had my suspicions, but it was Eeyore. He looked up at me with his huge, sad eyes and uttered those fateful words: ‘I’ll have to go on my own then.” Guilt kicked in- as the manipulative donkey had known that it would- and I went with him.

He murdered me in reception with a flag.

I haven’t yet found the strength to forgive him, but I’m thankful every day that I’m living with people who spend their spare time like this.

3.       The Gunge.

As part of my job every fortnight we are required to hold a charity event to raise money for a good cause. This week someone thought that it would be a great idea for the guests to be able to bid on the opportunity to throw gunge over the instructor of their choice.

Now I’ll be honest- being the princess that I am I thought that the guests would spare me the pain, humiliation and smell, and vote for the bigger, competitive boys.

They didn’t.

Instead they thought that it would be hilarious to see noodles dripping from my nose and my hair filled with rotten tomatoes.

The guests paid €35 to see Flynn and I covered in a concoction made up of raw eggs, mould, noodles, tinned tomatoes and old jam.

I washed my hair three times and still brushed some tomato out of it this morning.

This is perhaps not my favourite memory but one that had to be mentioned nonetheless.

All in the name of charity :)

So as I pack up my tent and prepare myself to say goodbye to my lovely Flynn, Lumiere, Peter Pan and the other characters who have made my adventure so exciting, I’m beginning to compile a list of the things that I’m most going to miss…

1.       

     Peter Pan greeting me every morning with ‘You look amazing today! Belle, you are fantastic and today is going to be a good day.”

2.       The hilarious things that children say. From dinosaurs being around a month ago to B*witched being from the olden days, I’ve heard it all and am always in suspense about what’s going to come out next. When I asked the children this morning which three things they would want on their own planets, one child responded that he would take a spanner, some goggles and a carrot. Ah to be four again…

3.       Lumiere using the patch of grass right next to my tent as a toilet. There’s nothing like bare body parts pressed up against your window to make you choke on your dinner…

4.       Goofy’s dancing. We have been lucky enough to have Goofy grace our campsite just for the last few weeks and I cannot stress how happy his presence makes me. One of the funniest people I have ever met, he moves like nobody I have ever seen before and will no doubt never see again. I will remember them forever.

5.      Flynn Ryder. He has been my colleague, housemate, best friend and partner in crime. He’s been a constant source of laughter, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to chew off and an excellent chef. I couldn’t have coped without him.

6.       Standing at the side of the lake and looking over it to the bar and the beach. It provides the most beautiful picture and is my favourite place in the whole world. Standing there reminds me how lucky I am to be here and how thankful I am that this is the direction my life has taken me in.

It’s not all beautiful views and happy dancing though. Here are the things that I’m not going to miss….

1.       Listening to Stacy’s Mom blaring out from Flynn’s playlist all day long. I wake up in the night with that song in my head now. After September I never need to hear it again.

2.       Having to go on a trek just to get to the toilet. Those of you living in a house with a toilet (and I would imagine that’s most of you) don’t realise just how lucky you are.

3.        Realising in the shower that my towel is back in my tent.

4.        Acting surprised and impressed when guests come up the name ‘Titanic’ for their raft. Very original.

5.        French opening times. The shop is only open between eight and twelve thirty, then four and seven (the exact hours that I am at work), the restaurants in the nearest town are only open Wednesday to Saturday, and almost every other day is a bank holiday.

Despite all this, as I’m sure you can tell, I have absolutely loved my second summer here in paradise and am so sad that time has crept up on me again and is forcing me to leave.

I have to remember that I will always have the memories, and that the next adventure will no doubt be just as magical.

Especially since it’s in Disneyworld!

That’s right; on 12^th February 2013 I am moving to Disneyworld, Florida for twelve whole months.

So time- you may be able to push me out of France, to change my appearance and to make me ridiculously sentimental.

But as long as I continue to meet wonderful characters like Flynn, Lumiere and Peter Pan, you will never make me grow up.

And there’ll be plenty of those in Disneyworld- right? :)

You've Got A Friend In Me...

Seven years ago I made the very sensible decision to leave my school days behind and move instead to a sixth form college to continue my studies. Not to say that I didn’t love my time at school, or that I wasn't sad to leave my fantastic friends and teachers behind, but I felt that I had gained everything that could possibly gained there, and that staying would simply hold me in a time warp for two years- leaving me as a sixteen year old about to embark on university life.

I understand that this isn’t the right decision for everyone.  

But it definitely was for me.

If for no other reason than the fact that I met the three most beautiful, funny, intelligent and loyal girls whilst I was there- girls who have gone on to shape my life, experiences and personality in a way that none of us could ever have predicted.

I imagine that if someone had told me on the day that I met each of them that they were going to change my life, I would have been terrified for my future- yep, terrified.

It all started on Wednesday 14^th September 2005.

I was sitting in my new tutor room with my new tutor group and my new, scary tutor (who, despite being little, pretty and blonde, was ridiculously intimidating and therefore reminded me of Tinkerbell). I was sitting next to a chatty girl with jet black hair and a nose ring, trying to imagine where this friendship might go as she described- with great enthusiasm- the best place to get drunk on a Friday night. It involved nudity, mosh pits and kissing the fifty year old barman.

I couldn’t see this blossoming into anything magical.

Just as I was wondering whether it would be rude to move to the other side of the room my tiny tutor called the room to silence and began to scare us into vowing to try our best at everything this year.

Halfway through this attempt at an inspirational speech;  as the whole class stared up at the forbidding woman- eyes wide, mouths hanging open and pens frozen above paper- the door swung aside, startling everyone into looking over at the latecomer.  

A very attractive girl with short dark hair and a bag over her shoulder wandered into the room- apparently unaware that she had interrupted anything.

“Sorry I’m late”, she smiled, before sitting down next to me. Little did I know that this beautiful creature was in fact The Lion King’s Pumba in disguise.  

Tinkerbell looked at her pointedly before continuing her speech.

Once she was quite satisfied that she had scared us sufficiently, the elfin tutor began to hand out our timetables. As she made her way around the room, the class gradually tested her to see whether it was acceptable to speak and, as they did so, the room got louder and Pumba began to speak to me.

As I listened to her explain why she was late, I wrote this friendship off as well. She was gorgeous, and seemed lovely, but with her laid back manner and grown up dress sense she was clearly much older than me and so would probably would be one of those students that just turns up to lessons, works, and then leaves again.

As Tinkerbell handed us our timetables we began to study and compare them.

“Ooh I’ve only got Dance this morning.”

She hasn’t got Dance this morning. She’s got Performance Studies. Where is she looking?!

“Um…” I reply, “I think you’ve got Performance Studies. Look, just here.” I point at the timetable.

“No, I haven’t, I’ve got Dance.”

Am I losing my mind? She hasn’t got Dance at all today.

“Today’s Wednesday, this is this morning, you’ve got Performance Studies.”

“But here it says Dance…”

She’s actually insane.

Oh wait. 

She’s pointing at Monday.

“Oh wait! I was pointing at Monday! You’re right. Sorry.” She laughed nervously.

I quite liked her.

Once we had exchanged names and timetables, I left Pumba to her Performance Studies class and went off in search of the Law department. My lesson didn’t actually start for another two hours but I wanted to make sure I knew where I was going. I didn’t think that I would be a calm latecomer like my new friend had been this morning, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Especially on my first day.

Using the map that I had been given I attempted to navigate my way through the canteen and into the right department. As I stepped into the Law corridor I heard a loud voice telling, well the whole college, that she was waiting for her Law class to start in two hours.

Perfect.

“Did I just hear you say that you’ve got Law in two hours? I’m waiting for that class too.”

She turned around.

With huge, almond eyes and two pink streaks at the front of her hair, Minnie Mouse was striking to say the least.

She laughed and said, five decibels louder than any normal person would, that she was waiting for the same class as me, what was I going to do while I waited?

I then introduced myself to her friend, and stood chatting to them about their subjects/hometowns/plans for the future until the second girl said that she had to leave for her class.

“I’m so nervous about making friends, how am I meant to meet people?” She asked.

“Just introduce yourself and start talking. That’s what I do, it’s easy.” I smiled at her.

“Yeh, just go up to people and make a fool of yourself like this girl just did with us.” Minnie replied.

Fantastic start Rebecca, well done, you’ve embarrassed yourself.

I spent the following hour with Minnie, supposedly swapping life stories but actually just replaying her words about me making a fool of myself over and over in my head, until we finally made our way to our Law class.

Standing outside the classroom I could see immediately that there was already a divide between the future lawyers. The students were divided generally into…

1.       The Beautiful Girls.

The girls who hadn’t yet realised that they had left school and were therefore no longer ruling the world. Wearing short skirts to reveal ridiculously long, fake tanned legs, they had chosen Law after watching Legally Blonde too many times and would go on to spend lessons filing their nails, giggling behind their text books and fluttering their eyelashes at Jafar- the evil Law tutor who soon became my first ever arch enemy.

2.       The Unbelievably Nerdy Ones.

I was never cool at school; I’ll be the first to admit that. But this group of people are something else. With ridiculously frizzy/stand-up hair that I’m sure could be fixed by Herbal Essences and a quick brush; blotchy, bumpy skin and perfectly round glasses, these students manage to maintain their milky complexion in August, wear braces into their twenties and laugh as though they’ve got something stuck in their throat. Their jokes involve Isaac Newton references and their spare time never includes fresh air or exercise. They achieve outstanding results then go on to work in the back of a boring office somewhere because they have no social skills whatsoever.

3.       The Sporty Ones.

They wear flip flops in December, rugby shorts to their English lessons and make everything about sport. They make the Beautiful Girls blush and are genuinely confused about The Unbelievably Nerdy students’ total disinterest in sports. Their grades are just fine but they’re not really bothered- they chose the college for the sports team and they’re planning on making a career out of that anyway. The teacher tries not to like them but their cheek and charm gets them through the year easily. Think of your school PE teacher. He/she was one of these once.

4.       The Losers.

They’re at college because their school wouldn’t let them stay on. You don’t even learn their name because you see them once during the first lesson and not again until the exam. They think that the teachers are all out to get them and that education is a waste of time. I recently bumped into one of these working on a market stall in Chelmsford. She flashed her gold tooth and her bump at me as she had the last laugh: ‘They always told me that I’d regret not working hard but look how well I’ve done without any GCSEs’.

5.       The Perfectly Normal, Lovely Ones.

This is the group you were in, right? Course it was. It was the group I was in at school, college, university and that I’m sure I’ll go on to be in in all jobs and future playgrounds.

As I stood outside that classroom and categorised each person I spotted five people in that last group. One of them I soon realised was totally in a group of her own as she stood chatting away to herself stroking her own arm, and another turned out to be a lost foreign exchange student. Which left me, Minnie Mouse and Cowgirl Jessie.

Jessie smiled at me and came over and introduced herself.

When Jafar finally arrived and let us into his classroom, he watched, jealously, as the three Perfectly Normal, Lovely Ones sat together and swapped lives so far: forming the beginnings of a friendship with potential. Having, almost certainly, belonged in group number two when he was at school, Jafar took a great dislike to this and decided to nip it in the bud before it went too far.

“Hm Rebecca why is that I’ve learnt your name first? If you’re unable to sit quietly then perhaps you should sit alone.”

Now I, as most of you will by now know, am Belle, from Beauty and the Beast, and will therefore stand up for myself when absolutely necessary to people that I’m unlikely to see again like Orange Customer Service Reps or angry Dutch men that push me around (read my future blogs for that story), but would accept a kick in the teeth politely and appreciatively if it was coming from authority.

I therefore blushed, apologised and vowed to be quieter in future lessons.

Minnie Mouse isn’t like that.

 “It wasn’t just her Jafar. It was all three of us and, in fact, most people in the class have been speaking so I think it’s unfair of you to only pick on Rebecca who obviously won’t stand up to you.”

Oh dear. Kill me now.

Maybe she doesn’t belong in the Perfectly Normal, Lovely Group.

I looked over at Jessie. Even she, feisty as she is, was blushing in embarrassment and struggling not to giggle. Spotting her watering eyes and bulging cheeks as she struggled not to burst out laughing I suddenly saw the funny side. My eyes began to water. I could feel myself getting pinker.

Minnie Mouse spotted us out of the corner of her eye.

She didn’t even bother with discretion.

She burst out laughing, and, unable to hold it in anymore, so did Jessie and I.

Jafar rolled his eyes and went back to addressing the whole class.

After that day I always wondered whether we were seen as The Perfectly Normal, Lovely ones or The Annoying Giggly Girls.

Later that afternoon as I climbed aboard the bus that was going to take me home I noticed that Pumba was sitting near the back. Sitting beside her, we began to swap stories about our first day and established that we had both met Minnie Mouse and Cowgirl Jessie, that we both thought that Minnie Mouse was crazy and that Jessie was hilarious, and that we had both found at least one person from Group Number three that we fancied. We were also both the exact same age.

It all started on Wednesday 14^th September 2005.

Since then we have been through more drama together than the whole cast of Eastenders put together.

We’ve seen tears of laughter, joy, relief, sadness and disappointment. We’ve been there for broken hearts, broken bones and broken homes. We’ve been there for celebration drinks, commiseration drinks and just plain drunk drinks. We’ve sung together, danced together, holidayed together. There have been midnight phone calls, emergency phone calls, excited phone calls and I-miss-you phone calls. We’ve had wild nights out on the town and quiet nights in with films and ice cream. We’ve pulled apart He’s Just Not That Into You and discussed the many merits of Bradley Cooper. Many characters, both good and evil, have come into our story and none have managed to successfully pull us apart. These Perfect, Lovely Girls are not only my Minnie Mouse, Cowgirl Jessie and Pumba but also my partners in crime- my Pascal, Abu and Zazu; my Rachel, Monica and Phoebe; my Carrie, Miranda and Samantha: my favourite people and my best friends.

And even now as I continue on my travels, meeting new, amazing people every day and spending most of my time with the gorgeous Flynn Ryder, funny Peter Pan and wild Lumiere; I miss my three musketeers every day and continue to bombard them with texts and emails regarding my latest adventures and new crazy dramas: reminding myself each time that not everyone has beautiful, intelligent and lovable rocks to lean on 24/7.

Aren’t I lucky? J

All For One...

A few weeks ago I was lucky enough to be joined in Rhodes by Winnie-the-Pooh's wise old friend Owl. I had only been working on the Greek Island for around four days when he came and sat beside me during the evening entertainment. Just as the Abba tribute band launched into their rendition of Waterloo, he leaned over and gave me the best piece of advice that I have received to date.

He began explaining that years ago, before settling in Hundred Acre Wood, he himself lived and worked in Greece, and thought he probably knew how I would be feeling.

"Greeks will tell you to do one thing, watch you do it, then tell you that you're wrong and need to do it another way. They will change their minds about what they want from you, and expect you to accommodate their changing needs. You will never know where you stand, and there are no set rules for anything."

Since I had arrived I had attempted, unsuccessfully, to explain via emails, phone calls and endless Skype conversations with friends and family exactly what it was like to work here. Owl had managed to do it in three sentences.

I had no idea what to do to make my new employers happy because they had no idea what they wanted from me.

Having perfectly summed up the difficult situation I was in, Owl culminated the conversation with the following golden nugget of information; about to change my whole attitude towards work and towards my background.

"Never be afraid to be British. It doesn't matter where in the world you are, if you do it the British way,  nobody will object."

With that he smiled and patted me on the knee- something which I took as confirmation that he knew that my current homepage was 'Easyjet flights from Rhodes to Stansted', and that he thought I should stick at it a little longer.

This support from one of the only British guests in the hotel at this time meant a great deal more than I'm sure even Wise Old Owl will ever understand. Not only did it feel like a big cup of hot chocolate when the rest of the world had let me go cold and thirsty, it also changed my outlook on my heritage. In one passing comment Owl had transformed me. He had pushed me into the telephone box as a lost, confused, ridiculously-young-looking English girl, embarrassed at her lack of foreign language skills and ashamed at her poor darts-playing abilities; only for me to emerge a taller, prouder British woman wearing a union jack as a cape and a big, welcoming smile on her face.

His words echoed around my head for the rest of that night and when I woke in the morning I decided to test his theory. I would stop being worried about what these people wanted from me: they clearly didn't know so odds were that if I did things the British way they might just be satisfied. And if they weren't at least I would be.

I started by singing hello at everyone that I saw. This was something that, out of habit, I had naturally done in my first few days. The response that I received from those not from the UK usually consisted of a nod of the head, occasionally paired with a grunt. I would then continue on my way with the distinct feeling that everyone found me childish and annoying. This morning, though, I put those embarrassed feelings aside and remembered Owl's words. I would remain British. Could people really bemoan the fact that I greet guests with a cheery 'good morning!'? If anything surely they should be embarrassed at their rude and miserable attitudes in the face of my happiness.

That morning I was lucky enough to receive a few grunts and even a couple of smiles as I went on my way around the hotel. My team leader laughed at my happy statement and commented that it was a lovely welcome- even if he himself did only raise his eyebrows as a way of greeting. The few British guests- obviously- returned my 'good morning!' with an equally cheery 'hello!' or sometimes even an 'isn't it glorious?!'

Later that day, my manager was talking to the team about how to engage guests. He explained that engaging with English guests was easy. "They're always up for joining in, always say hello and always have a smile on their faces."

Is this really how we're seen abroad? I had always thought we were seen as hooligans. I asked my Tunisian boss as much.

"No! The English are always the best guests. They're happy, excitable, ready to join in and rarely complain."


What a revelation.

As I carried on through the week, I discovered that Owl had been right. When I stopped worrying about what everyone expected of me and did things the British way, suddenly everything that I did was right. Guests, staff and managers alike were happy with my work, leaving me free to notice little British quirks that make me proud of my background....

1. Putting at least shorts on to go to the supermarket on holiday. Sound obvious? We're the only nation that do it. Trust me. 


2. Meeting new people and being happy about it. Part of my job was to spend my evenings introducing myself to guests and getting to know them. Like greeting people in the morning, this is a far more acceptable ritual in UK culture. On more than one occasion (in fact almost every day), my team leader had to 'have a word' with me about my tendency to spend more than the allocated ten minutes with British customers. I could skip over to guests from any other background and they would happily ask me where I'm from, and inform me of their trip so far. I would then wish them a pleasant evening and leave them with a smile, moving on to the next table. As far as my manager was concerned- this was fantastic. It was straight out of the 'How To Be The Perfect Entertainer' textbook. With British guests it wasn't quite so straightforward. I would introduce myself and ask them about their trip exactly the same as I would with any other guests, and quicker than you can say 'enjoy your stay' I'd be sipping my third cocktail and looking at pictures of their grandchildren.

3. Our passion for football. The Greek hotel bar didn't even have a screen to show the football on (I know!), so when a whole gang of (mostly Liverpudlian) guests almost had a group panic attack on the night of the FA Cup Final, they had to compromise with a karaoke screen and a dodgy satellite.
Recently when I was in France one family had brought their own TV and dish and set it up outside their tent to ensure they didn't miss out on any of the Euro 2012.
 So far it doesn't sound like a trait to be too proud of does it? Getting over-excited about fully grown men kicking a ball around? 
What I am proud of is our ability to forget everything else, come together in our matching shirts and face-painted cheeks, and support our team as one.  

4. Joining in. Whilst less than 40% of the hotel guests were from the UK, approximately 90% of activity participants were British. As I stood each morning on the edge of the pool shouting 'Water Polo!', I felt confident and safe in the knowledge that there would be at least nine newly-tanned, enthusiastic, British faces beaming up at me before I finished the second word. The final participant would be pushed in as he walked back from the supermarket in only his speedos. 

5. Our sense of loyalty to one another. As a holiday maker you may not have noticed this- but it's always there. Many of you have probably been in a situation involving staring round at empty sun loungers, unable to take one as they have already been reserved by a towel belonging to someone from outside of the UK. Remember? I would bet my right foot that you discussed this with another British holidaymaker and complained about it together.
 I once went on holiday to a campsite that provided fantastic evening entertainment but not enough chairs for all the guests. That holiday involved observing a lot of arguments but not one of them involved two British families against each other. Like siblings who are not always best friends but remain fiercely protective, British people tend to stick together.
My most memorable and moving experience of this loyalty happened on the day that I left Rhodes. 


That's right. I left Rhodes.


I tried Owl's advice and it did work, but it sadly didn't change the fact that I was deeply unhappy there for too many reasons to list here, so I handed in my resignation and worked my twenty-one days notice before leaving just over a month ago. 


Due to the nature of my departure, I was asked by my manager to keep it a secret that I was leaving. A secret from everyone. Which meant that when my pre-booked and pre-paid taxi arrived and I asked the bell boy whether it was for me, he insisted that it wasn't. As did the driver. It was only after he had left that reception realised their mistake (having sent him away assuring him that there is no Rebecca staying here- a little clue as to why I may have left) and told me that I would have to pay seventy Euro for another taxi. 


Having already paid for my flights to and from Rhodes, as well as my overweight luggage, my living expenses and the taxi that they had sent away, all to work for free for a month, I wasn't exactly in a position to find another seventy Euro for somebody else's mistake. 


I'll let your imagination decide how I might have responded to the receptionist's suggestion.


When she then told me to 'calm down, it's only seventy euro, it's not a big deal', I was promptly surrounded by four English people. 


The first gave me a hug, told me that it was a big deal and that I had every right to be angry and upset. The second two told me that they would go and speak to their taxi driver and organise for me to go in their taxi for free. The final one helped me carry my luggage out to the taxi and put it in for me. 


Those four people who had never met me before and had no obligation toward me whatsoever, stayed by my side for the rest of my journey, ensuring that everything else went smoothly until the moment that I put on my sunglasses and pretended to be a celebrity for the walk out into the arrivals lounge. 


Those four people made me more thankful and more proud to be British than ever. 


I returned from Greece to the most British Britain in history. 


Supermarket ceilings were dripping with Union Jacks showing Queen Elizabeth's dignified face, shelves were stacked with Royal Family themed...well...everything. From plates, cups and tea towels to masks, champagne and bowler hats, almost every product in every store was covered with the Union Jack and Her Majesty's face. Similarly I found that I couldn't drive anywhere without seeing beautifully decorated red, white and blue houses, as well as flag-adorned cars and vans. 

On the Royal Jubilee weekend itself I found myself working on a campsite in France. Wearing red, white and blue, faces painted and Britain-themed cups in hand, the guests made the weekend fantastically British and once again I felt proud of my heritage.

In the following weeks I found myself feeling increasingly patriotic as I visited Greenwich, Stratford and Chelmsford.

As I spent days out with my friends Timone and Mary Poppins, spotting the Equestrian Competitions being set up in Greenwich Park, the viewing platform in Westfield Shopping Centre, and various tracksuited Olympians running into Starbucks for their caffeine fix, I felt a rush of excitement for the summer, and pangs of regret that I wouldn't be here to witness it.

I then spent an evening in Chelmsford watching the England-Sweden match with Woody, closely followed by equally-nail-biting matches in the Isle of Wight and Bicknacre. On each of these occasions as I stood with a group of people that I (mainly) didn't know, I felt that warm sense of community and togetherness that can only really be brought about by football or a natural disaster.

So despite the fact that I will be in France for the Olympics I will be keeping up with the success of it all- particularly the opening ceremony which my beautiful friend Gabriella Montez will be taking part in- and look forward to returning in September.

In the mean time, these are the things I will miss most while I'm away....

1. Robinson's Orange and Pineapple Squash. This amazing concoction comes second only to my brothers on my Best Things About Being Home list.

2. Cadbury's Dairy Milk. That would be on your list too, wouldn't it?

3. Miranda. The best television programme to come out of Britain. EVER.

4. Driving on the left. I only drove once in France last year but I don't think all the practice in the world would stop me from reaching for the door handle to change gear.

5. Saying 'thank you' loudly and clearly and knowing I'm pronouncing it correctly. I try, with 'merci', I really do. But saying it properly makes me gag.

6. Buying fruit and vegetables the same way you buy everything else, i.e. not wasting twenty minutes working out how to use that weighing/sticker machine.

7. Seeing Beckham's gorgeous face every time I turn on the television/open a magazine/read a paper.

8. Radio One. Especially Greg James. I know it's international but I won't have a radio in my tent....

I was asked in the third year of my degree whether I was happy that I was British. I answered that I was. I explained that I had always thought myself lucky to have been born here. When I said that I had meant because we live in a modern, first world society. The past few months have brought my attention to the fact that I am lucky to be British for more reasons than a nice, brick house and sky TV. For more reasons even than Richard Curtis and J.K. Rowling.

After my experiences in Greece, France, and the UK I have found that Owl was right. We should always be proud to be British.

So this summer as you complain about inevitable train delays, traffic nightmares and a lack of Mediterranean weather- just remember how lucky you are to be from somewhere as wonderful as the UK. 

I know I will :)

It's A Small World....

Exactly one week ago today I boarded flight EZY8971 to my latest adventure.

Having moved straight from Ireland to Chigwell to Chelmsford to Disney in the three weeks leading up to my flight, I had very little time to register that it was actually happening. 

I had no time to feel excitement, nerves or anticipation.

One minute I was stepping onto a plane flying from Dublin to London, the next I was taking that amazing step that I look forward to every time I book a holiday.

The step off of the plane.

The second that your foot hits the metal your body is enveloped in a delicious heat and your nose is filled that wonderful smell of...holiday. It smells of relaxation and good food and too many photos all rolled into one.

As I walked toward the tiny airport with a newly washed floor (why do foreign airports always have a wet floor?) I finally got a buzz of anticipation.

I was in Rhodes!


After two days of sitting in a white van with Tunisian men shouting in Arabic about which hotel they should send me to (yes, it was just as horrific as it sounds)- I finally made it to my new home: The Atrium Palace Hotel.

It's beautiful.

The hotel has glorious views, three fantastic pools, a gorgeous beach and- most importantly- plenty of double chocolate magnums.

So far I have loved it, and am so thankful that the arguments in the white van led me here.

But I can't help thinking that it would be even better to be here on holiday.

As I have been greeting guests in the afternoon, "Opah!"-ing on Greek night and Agadoo-ing at the mini disco I have, on more than one occasion, found myself daydreaming about my next summer holiday.

Being here has got me thinking about holidays and prompted a discussion with my new roommate, Cinderella, about those certain people that you see on a European summer holiday every single year....

1. Super mum. You know her. Her children are wearing special hats that protect every part of the body from the shoulders up- hats that are never seen in normal shops or at any other time of year. (Except maybe Sports Day.) The children's faces are white from sun cream, despite the fact that they are wearing full body swimming costumes and sitting in the pop up tent that they flat packed into their case, and are therefore unlikely to see any sun. They always have a picnic with them including fruit, carrot sticks and cartons of organic juice. Super mum can normally be recognised by her Simon-Cowell-style high waisted beige shorts (worn even in December), beige, open-toe, flat sandals and bumbag.

2. The Retired Couple. They love the resort that you are staying in and they have been coming here every year since their first baby was born. They love to talk to anyone and everyone- making friends with those around them at the pool, in the restaurant and during the show. Those that they do talk to will have a run down of the funny things that their children did here when they were little, and will probably be shown photographs of their grandchildren.

3. The Ones With Money. This isn't their real holiday, oh no. They go to Florida in July and India in August for their real holidays. This European holiday, along with their timeshare in Portugal and their three weeks in Spain in February are just little breaks. You know this because they announce it at ten minute intervals.

4. The Two Point Four Children Cereal Ad Family. The beautiful parents sunbathe whilst the children play happily in the pool.  The children have matching swimming costumes and evening outfits. The girls have their hair french plaited and the boys practice ball games with their dad. They join in all of the activities put on by the hotel- and win every single one.

5. The Northern Family. When I was younger, my brothers- Mowgli and Chip- and I used to call a Manchester accent 'a holiday accent'. I always wonder if Northerners used to say the same about ours...?

6. The Family That You Wouldn't Mess With. It's hard to see if the dad has a body part that isn't tattooed, the mum has bleached blonde hair in a tight ponytail and the kids are called 'Destiny' and 'Paris'. You know this because those names are constantly being shouted at a volume slightly above acceptable- all.day.long.

7. The Ones You Can't Quite Work Out. He's in his twenties, she's in her fifties. Are they a couple? Or mother and son? You can see other people asking the same questions and sometimes even discuss it with other guests, but very rarely find out. Shame, really.

8. The Ultra-Happy, Hyper and Bubbly Entertainer who sings 'Morning!' at you just a bit too loudly when you're trying to come out of your ouzo-coma brought on by the previous night's antics. She's super enthusiastic about things like aerobics and table tennis while it's forty degrees and you didn't go to bed until four and all you really want is to read your book and sleep by the pool.

Now you will definitely slot into one of these categories.

Which are you?

I'm the last one.

I don't know what they put in the entertainers' water here, but gone is the girl who needed a bowl of cereal and an hour alone before being spoken to. I have now become that annoying, enthusiastic animator who bounces into breakfast and gets excited at the prospect of anything that involves dragging people from their sunbeds and putting, albeit begrudging, smiles on their faces.

Over the past year I have been lucky enough to enjoy working with every single one of these stereotypes and am so excited to be back in this happy industry.

So next time you're on holiday- look around for these characters and remember how brilliant they all are: your holiday memories wouldn't be the same without them.

I, for one, can't wait to introduce them back into my fairytale- and to continue to play character number eight in all of theirs :)

Once Upon A Time...

Imagine.

It's 1998. 

You've just finished a book about an eleven year old wizard called Harry. Your new favourite film is The Parent Trap (did you know the twins are played by the same girl?!). You're wearing pedal pushers, holding your Furby close and clutching your Pokemon cards, desperate to get hold of a Charizard because he's the coolest one.  

There's music playing in the background- not the repetitive music coming from the Family Computer where the rest of the family are crowded round, fascinated as they watch one person play The Lion King game (Paint but with a picture of Simba).  Different music. Music that makes you want to grab your Baby Born and Tiny Tears, line them up on chairs with your Furby to make an audience and dance your heart out.

Dance like you're at Wembley. 

Dance like you're a member of the best band ever. 

Dance like you're Faye, Claire, Lisa, Lee or H. 

You can hear that music and see those dance moves, can't you? 

You've just remembered Steps. 

This was me. 

This time last decade. 

This time last year. 

This time last week.

That's right. My gorgeous Irish Prince not only flew one of my favourite people of all time out to Ireland to see me, but also paid for us to see my favourite band of all time, in my favourite city of all time (if you don't know what that is- read my last blog) whilst she was here.

Standing in the O2 arena strutting my stuff to Love's Got A Hold On My Heart like it was only yesterday that I was in my bedroom practicing the moves (which it obviously wasn't....), singing those well-rehearsed lyrics at the top of my voice and seeing out of the corner of my eye that my mum was one step behind everyone else, I felt like I had been transported back fourteen years.

My current life disappeared from underneath me. I forgot about my job, my travels, my degree, my Prince, and my ability to drive, purchase a lottery ticket and eat sweets without asking.

I was nine again.

I loved it.

Remember being nine?

Everything's organised for you: meals are made, you're driven around, you dance/swim/trampoline, play football/hockey/basketball; you have endless toys, imagination and ideas, and there's always someone around because, unlike at age twenty-two, most of your friends live within walking distance and, in many cases, your siblings can't go anywhere without you.

I could probably quite happily still pretend to be a dance teacher in my front garden, or put on shows to my family, but, much to my disappointment, there seems to come an age that that's no longer socially acceptable. I came to that realisation quite late. Which is perhaps why I'm in my current job. Only in a holiday resort is it acceptable for a fully grown adult to dress themselves in a skull and cross bones hat with matching waistcoat and face paint, gain a suspiciously Irish-sounding accent and march around searching for pretend treasure whilst singing 'A Pirate's Life For Me'. And even then it's only really acceptable if you're doing it in the company of children.

Unfortunately I can no longer follow my pirate fun with back-to-back episodes of Sabrina The Teenage Witch and Kenan and Kel before a voice calls that dinner's ready. I imagine that if I knocked on my best friend's door this weekend with an old buggy carrying my favourite dolly (Charlie) and a picnic of Dairylea Lunchables and Sunny Delight, she might be ever-so-slightly less pleased at the sight than she was fourteen years ago.

And what about parties?

When you were nine, instead of vodka- there were Flying Saucers. Instead of Redbull-there were Smarties. Instead of doing shots- you ate Skittles. Instead of falling about shouting that you love everyone- you ran around, shouting that you were batman. Instead of singing badly at the top of your voice to a song you don't know the words to- you...well actually you did do that but somehow it's seen as cute before the age of eleven. And, of course- when you're nine, instead of a hangover- there's a party bag.

I think that last one is, in itself, quite a good reason to be nine.

But think of your life now- really think about it. Think about the people you have in it. The relationship you have with your friends, family and yourself. Think about the way you saw yourself then, and the way you see yourself now. Think about everything you've been through to get here. Think about your daily routine now, and compare it with your daily routine then.

Actually, being nine isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I know I loved it at the time, but I wouldn't swap where I am now for anything.

Seeing Steps made me compare my life now to the life I had the last time I saw them live. I have been through so much since then, and it made me think about what advice I would give to my nine year old self. Naturally I came up with exactly one million things, so I thought I'd write the top ten here....

1. Never worry about being popular. You'll probably hear this a lot but honestly- one day the girls that are looking down their heavily-made-up-ten-year-old noses at you will be shouting at their three wild kids to be quiet in the library as you print your one way ticket to Greece....

2. You will make a lot of friends. The ones that count will stick around. Don't worry about the others. Plus one day there will be this thing called Facebook that you can- just kidding.

3. The boy that you're heartbroken about, that isn't going to the same secondary school as you? He's going to sing in a rock band, cover himself in tattoos and get a lot of things pierced. He's not the one for you.

4. Nineteen is actually quite young to get married, and two children by twenty-three is a little ambitious. Make some other plans.

5. Mrs Tucker's a big bully. Don't listen to her. You'll be able to cook just fine. And one day you'll meet a lovely Irish Prince who will cook for you anyway.

6. Make the most of your family. Don't take them for granted. You're so lucky to be part of a cereal-ad family: remember that every time you laugh at the dinner table together or have an extended-family buffet at Nanny and Grandad's. It won't always be like this- savour it while you can.

7. Choosing your options ISN'T important. No matter how many times Mr Knox says it, it is not true- choosing Food Technology over Woodwork is not going to impact on the rest of your life.

8. Sometimes, relax a little bit. Have your shirt untucked, eat some chocolate and take a day out from revision. Maybe even leave your bedroom without all the ornaments perpendicular and facing the door....One day you're going to meet someone who will make you chill out and it'll change you for the better forever.

9. Sport is not just for boys. One day you're going to love it. There's so much more out there than dancing- try it.

10. You are going to meet so many people who will have a huge impact on your life and personality without even knowing it. Remember that you're probably having that impact on the majority of people you come into contact with. Make it positive.

Now think about what your list would look like.

Then ask yourself: what would your fifty year old self be telling you to stop worrying about now?

Makes you smile, doesn't it?

:)

It's the Circle Of Life...

So here we are. The time has come. The time that we have all been dreading.


I am leaving Ireland.


Now I travel a lot. I've lived in Chelmsford, Coventry, San Remo, Pratovecchio, Foiano Della Chiana, Rome, Florence, Bologna, Verona, Loire Valley and Wicklow, and have had to say my fair share of goodbyes.


And the same two things happen every time.


Firstly, I get emotional and sentimental and everyone around me tries to reassure me that it's The Circle Of Life, that I should just Look Forward to my Next Adventure, that I'll meet lots of people in my life and those that matter will stay in contact somehow. That the world is small. That it'll get easier as I get older.


The first time I left I was eighteen. I'm now almost twenty-three. It doesn't get easier.


Secondly, the best bits happen right before I leave.


I don't know whether that's because I know it's coming to an end, or if it's just plain Murphy's Law, but what I do know is that Ireland is no exception.


Now in this case it may be partly my own fault for planning to leave two weeks after St. Patrick's weekend (that's right, it's not just a day in Ireland, oh no!)- the weekend that was always going to take my love affair with this beautiful island to the next level.


I once told an Irish friend that I would love to be in Dublin for St. Patrick's day, to which he replied "Ah now I'd say it's a bigger deal in England than it is in Ireland".


He was categorically wrong.


St. Patrick's day is the biggest deal in Ireland.


In the weeks leading up to The Big Day, my world became a green blur- shops were filled with bright cards and decorations, the TV was filled with celebratory, 'happy-holidays' ads, huge, emerald billboards appeared across the country, buses and train stations were suddenly adorned with over-sized shamrocks, and I was given strict instructions to make as many St. Patrick-themed-cakes as humanly possible for my lovely boys' school.


And that was before the 17th March graced us with its presence.


On the day, hot dog and ice cream vans popped up as if from nowhere, stalls settled themselves on roadsides; trains, buses and cars came to a standstill. Shops were empty- in fact most were closed- and Irish music skipped through the air, as though emerging only from the atmosphere itself. Ireland stopped, as one, to celebrate everything Irish.


Parades took over the whole country: they were on TV, shown in all pubs, and, of course, perfectly accessible in real life.


I chose to take advantage of the latter, and was one of over five hundred thousand people who made their way into Dublin to watch the parade as it happened.


The train was packed with bright-green-clad, face-painted, hat-adorned crowds, with huge, genuine smiles and excited laughter, as was the city. 


The parade was made up of groups from all over the world celebrating Dublin's self-declared 'City of Science' name; answering questions such as 'why do we dream?' and 'why does the weather change?'


So I've been told.


I wouldn't be able to confirm that for definite because, whilst it was simply wonderful that people from all over the world came to Ireland to celebrate, what they don't advertise is that they appear to invite The Tallest People On The Globe, and stand them right along the front.

So I was stood behind the world's giants, between two groups of equally short girls who couldn't see anything either, and in front of a man from a country where they clearly haven't discovered deodorant yet. Or even baths.


I loved it.


Now I don't normally have a penchant for unhygienic men pressing themselves into my back and shoving a camera in my face, but for some reason in Dublin on St.Patrick's day, even that seemed magical.


I did only see the tops of the hats of the firemen (major disappointment, I know) and I missed all of the dancing, the kiss-blowing, the waving and the instrument-playing.


But the atmosphere was electric. It was magical and busy and multi-cultural, it gave you a sense of community and togetherness, and it was so, so....green (as my friend Mary Poppins found out when she tried to point out a man by describing him as 'the one with the green hat').


During the time that it was on, I laughed until I cried, then cried until I laughed, and just couldn't believe how lucky I was that I had only hopped on a train to get there.


When the parade was over, Mary Poppins and I had a quick trip to Butler's for a warm-me-up-hot-chocolate, stopping on the way to get the Irish flag painted on our cheeks, then dropped in at Claire's to buy some green accessories for the evening's festivities.


We both popped home for a couple of hours to get ready, then headed back into town again to see what St. Patrick's Dublin looked like at night. 


Exactly the same. 


Except the atmosphere was no longer mainly coming from the sense of community. 


It was mainly coming from the alcohol.


Now I could bore you with every second of what was my favourite night of the year so far, but instead, I'll just leave you with three facts:


- Irish people will talk to anyone about anything. When I mentioned this to my host mum she laughed and said 'ah yes, the Irish and alcohol...', but I don't mean with alcohol. During my forty minute wait for the bus I made friends with a couple in their late thirties on their way home from a wedding-planning meeting. I may as well have been at the meeting- I imagine that I now know more about the wedding than the bride's mum. I also made friends with people on the bus ride home that I'm now meeting up with next week, and met someone as I stepped off of the bus that proceeded to walk me home to make sure that I was safe.


- The Irish know the words to every Irish song that there is. And I don't mean Flying Without Wings and Love Me For A Reason, or even Galway Girl and Fairytale of New York- more like The Rare Old Times and The Rose Of Tralee.


-Not only do they know the words to all of these songs, but they also all have the ability to play the spoons to these songs. Now I don't know if the whole world is secretly practicing The Spoons without me knowing- if you are then I apologise for being so excited about it-but until Saturday night I'd never even heard of this, then suddenly once one person whipped her spoons out, everyone else followed. And everyone was amazing. 


I woke up at nine am on Sunday morning- just three and a half hours after I had made it into bed- with that fab, hungover-but-wow-last-night-was-amazing-I-wish-I-could-do-it-all-again-tonight feeling. So I  grabbed a slice of toast and Bovril, walked down into Greystones and wandered along the beach before meeting Mary Poppins for a coffee and a post-night-out analysis.


After laughing our way through the events of the night, we came to the heartbreaking realisation that we have only two weekends left. This then led to a conversation about what we're going to miss most about Ireland...

My future husband: Niall Breslin

1. Bressie. The gorgeous, rugby-playing, singer/songwriter coach on The Voice who is apparently fun and friendly. I hear wedding bells...


2. Today FM. Particularly Ray Foley who keeps me laughing all afternoon. In fact, I'm going to miss Irish radio altogether- only in a country this small do you get a shout out every time you text in to the national station.


3. Walking along the beautiful Greystones beach, listening to the waves (well....I actually normally have Be Our Guest blaring on my ipod) and watching families play at the water's edge.


4. Being able to make friends with everyone...everywhere. I've met people on buses, at train stations, in shops, cafes, restaurants, walking the dog through a building site where hardly anyone goes....


5. Going to order in a restaurant and the people on the next table leaning over to recommend what they have had. This has happened to me almost every time I've been out for dinner in Ireland, and not once in any of the other cities I've lived in.


6. Mi Wadi. Ireland's answer to Robinson's Orange and Pineapple.


7. Irish bread: the best thing since...well....


8. Ballymalone's Country Relish. It makes lunchtime an absolute joy.


9. The people I've met: the Irish Prince and his gorgeous family, Mary Poppins and the other nannies, my zumba instructor, dance teachers, bus/train/cafe friends....


10. My three new best friends: the beautiful boys that I look after and their wonderful mum.


We then discussed our favourite Irish-isms. In my January blog I posted a handy Irish-English dictionary for those of you travelling to the glorious island any time soon. I have, of course, discovered lots more since then, and have shared them below...


- Janey Mack!: OH MY GOODNESS ME I CANNOT BELIEVE IT. Or, 'Oh really? I hadn't realised.' Basically Ireland's very own exclamation mark, this phrase is used to express shock or surprise- at all levels. 


-Deadly: Contrary to the obvious, this is actually a positive thing. I felt about eighty years old when the Irish Prince's brother used it and I had to ask whether that meant good or bad. I felt a bit better when my friend, almost-18-year-old- Justin Bieber asked the same thing.


-Yoke: Thing. I'm totally guessing the spelling of this.


-Gaff: House. I know this is used in the UK but in Ireland they use it all the time. 


- Savage : Again, at the risk of sounding ancient, this is a good thing.


- Cop-on: Common Sense. When my host mum told me that a friend had no cop on I was temporarily horrified until she corrected me...


-Banjaxed: Exhausted or confused. A fantastic word that needs bringing to the UK.

-Mind: Look after. Like child-mind. But with everything. 

-Sliced pan: Bread. Unlike most of the others, this does make sense really...


-Buns: Used for all cakes- fairycakes, cupcakes, even biscuits in some cases. At the risk of sounding patronising this one always makes me want to hug the speaker- whether it's the five year old boy I care for or the sixty year old man behind me in the queue at Superquinn. (That's the local supermarket for those of you who don't know. When Tinkerbell visited me a few weeks ago she was most disappointed to discover that it wasn't an Irish Legoland....)

-Delighted: Again, I know that this is used in the UK but it is used by every age group in every conversation here.


But my favourite part of the whole of Irish speech is the addition of the following words/phrases to ordinary sentences: making them sound Irish but actually adding no meaning whatsoever. 


-Ah: Added to the beginning of a normal sentence, I think to emphasise the point, as in 'Ah she's grand'.


-So: Not meaning 'therefore' as it would in the UK, but just added to the end of a sentence. For the craic. For example: 'Ah she's grand so'.


- So he/she/it is: This phrase appears to be added to the end of sentences to confirm that the speaker still agrees with what they just said: 'Ah she's grand so she is'. I'm not sure whether everyone does this but I always picture it with an emphatic nod.


-There:  Added to the end of sentences for no reason at all that I can fathom: 'I watched the football there earlier' (not referring to anywhere). 


-Sure: This one can be added to the beginning or the end, which is why I think it's my favourite. 'Ah she's grand sure' or 'Sure she's grand'.


Finally, there are several 'Irish' ways of speaking that I'm not totally convinced haven't just been made up by the Irish Prince for his own entertainment....


-Now in a minute. He'll be here now in a minute? Does.Not.Make.Sense.


--'I'm going to head'. You're going to head? How is anyone supposed to know what that means?


-'Ooh let's get some Fruit Pasteeeels'. That's right, the Irish Prince has tried to convince me that the Irish way of referring to the delicious fruit-flavoured jellies is with a long 'ee' sound rather than the 'i' in its spelling. Confirmation from an Irish person not connected to my Prince would be gratefully appreciated.


So here it is, I can't put it off any longer.


It's time to go.


Following my lengthy 'Wonders of Ireland' conversation with Mary Poppins, I made a vow. Having fallen totally and utterly in love with everything about this gorgeous country, I have to come back. So now as I head to my adventures in Rhodes, Asia, America and wherever else my journey may take me, I know that I will return, that my Circle of Life will bring me back and I will grow old surrounded by Chocolate Kimberleys, Mi Wadi and beautiful accents.


Ireland: you have given me love, laughter, friendship and memories that will stay with me forever.


Thanks for the craic.


I'll be back now in a minute :)