Day 18: photographic evidence

All these holiday snapshots are doing my head in. I don’t recognize the middle-aged woman in them. Who the hell is she? She can’t possibly be me. Because if it’s me … Fark! I am so old. I am dark-circled, hollow-eyed. I am lined. I am past it. I don’t want to be this person. I want to be the person who was on the Fairstar 20 years ago. Thin, smooth, pert. Young people, they shit me. Up the wall. They don’t know what they’ve got until it’s gone. They are so down on themselves, when they have so much going for them. Glossy hair in all the right places and none of the wrong. Silky skin. Bright eyes. Tight abs. Perky boobs. I want to make my children understand the blessings of youth. But I can’t. They’ll make all the same mistakes I did. They’ll hate themselves. They’ll think they’re fat. They’ll think they’re ugly. They’ll think no-one will ever love them … Sorry, too much to much whiskey on my second last night at sea. Maudlin. Yet oddly excited about the day ahead. An active volcano. A black sand beach. I am beside myself about the black sand beach. And the shops in Hilo. They are bound to disappoint. But after 18 days of diamantie pens and pop watches it won’t take much to move me and my credit card. Not to mention there only being one last night until we see Husband. We are very excited about seeing Husband. We miss Husband. We feel guilty voicing such things when Nitin, our waiter, who must wait six months to see his two-year-old daughter and wife, left behind in Mumbai. But we voice them anyway. Stupid, fat westerners.