Pigging out

I didn’t have total obliteration in me last night, despite the availability of free alcohol. But I did put away a generous amount of champagne at the Kidspot Top 50 Bloggers of 2012 cocktail party last night, so I’m a bit hungover and disorganised after a blackout screwed with my alarm clock. You’ll have to wait for my extra-large Diet Coke and Bacon & Egg McMuffin (with a triple Panadol chaser) to kick in and reboot my brain enough for me to tell all. In the meantime, I’ve spent a goodly amount of time this week wondering why the hell I continue with this blogging business. I don’t make any money out of it, it takes hours every day and my self-esteem rises and falls with my daily statistics. Like last September when a whole 12 people read it one day. The post was called Freedom Of Choice. I didn’t think it wasn’t that bad, despite its appalling numbers, so I’ve decided it deserves another airing. This time with the accompanying pic of piggy legs I couldn’t upload back then. Here goes:

“Choices you shouldn’t give your children on holidays: Would you like to admire the Spanish countryside as we drive to the historic town of Guadalest or bury your head in a Doctor Who book the whole way? Do you want to try a delicious local speciality of meatballs wrapped in cabbage for lunch or order the baked beans on toast? Would you like Sprite or water with your meal? Do you want to climb to the fascinating castle ruins at Guadalest or sit in a cafe eating ice-cream? Would you like the blue plastic dolphin bracelet with diamantie eye as a souvenir or the local artesan-made stone necklace? Do you want a banana or another chunk of baguette as a snack? Would you like to go swimming or sit drawing faces on rocks with textas? Do you want to try tapas for the first time or have pizza for dinner? Would you like to watch a DVD or come shopping with Mummy and Daddy at the local supermarket? Actually, the last one was a trick question, as Husband and I have a foreign supermarket fetish that’s best enjoyed without a chorus of Sprog whining. All those weird and wonderful things to buy or chortle about (or in the case of Farton bread stick thingies we discovered at the local Spanish supermarket, both). My favourite foreign supermarkets are the American ones, filled with horrifyingly delightful things like choc-chip cookie breakfast cereal. Spanish ones have a more limited appeal as 75% of the produce is pork-based and Husband hates pork. It rules out the whole, cured pig legs with their trotters still attached, piled high in the deli section. Actually, the whole deli section is a bust, stacked with lovely chorizos and iberico ham slices and quiches with jamon and queso. The liquor aisle holds its own fascinations, crammed almost exclusively with 2 euro bottles of wine. Tricky when you’re searching for something special to give your hosts to thank them for letting you spread your grimy possessions through every room of their house, but a boon for cheap quaffing. Then there’s the disappointment of finally arriving at the checkout and having most of your weird little snacks confiscated because you didn’t weigh them downstairs and attach price stickers. Damn. Ah well, at least we’ve still got the Fartons.”