Marge and I hired some bikes to do a 22km up-and-down mountains cycle ride which has been named – somewhat dishonestly, I should add – ‘the little circuit.’ The man asked if either of us were proficient cyclists. “No,” Marge replied. (That was probably fairly obvious; she had turned up for a five hour cycle in a tight cream-coloured miniskirt.) “Yes,” I shouted self-importantly. “I cycle everywhere in London.” I bounced around in my shorts and plimsolls to prove the point.
The man looked unconvinced and handed me a bike. “Tell me if the saddle is the right height,” he said. I got on and took off. “No,” I yelled. “It’s too low… I… ARRGHHHH… F*********CK!” And with that I drove fast into a parked bike and fell off.
(Sometimes, when I relate the ludicrous things that happen to me, I wonder if you think that I am making it up in the name of farce. I am not. I really am that much of a knob.)
So off we set, armed with a map and the bike man’s recommendations for good walk/rest/food stops. The one which excited us most was the hidden lake bit where you jump off a wooden platform into the sparkling water. We had not been expecting it and were, resultantly, bikini-less, but we agreed that this was a minor detail. Hopefully no-one else would be there and we would be able to strip naked, as if in a costume drama, and splash round the lake in the late afternoon sun while our white petticoats hung seductively from a tree, driving a local young stable lad mad as he watched us frolic from the safety of a clump of bulrushes.
Er, anyway, on arrival it became immediately clear that we were not going to be able to strip naked. The correct conditions were all present – beautiful late afternoon sun, a peaceful, stunning little lake hidden in an Alice in Wonderland forest, swaying rushes and so on – but unfortunately there was a bevy of good-looking young Argentines roasting their nubile bodies on the wooden jetty and occasionally getting up to execute perfect back flips into the lake.
Marge and I looked at each other, suddenly feeling like geeky teenagers at the side of the dancefloor. “I’m sorry, Marge,” Marge said. “I don’t think I can do it. I’m wearing leopardskin knickers.”
I decided to pretend that I was fearless and unbothered by the beautiful people. “Ah, it’s fine Marge!” I breezed. “F*ck ‘em! They won’t even notice us!” And with that I stripped down to my smalls.
When I straightened up, ready to strut over to the edge of the jetty, I noticed that the guy sitting on a wooden railing directly in front of me was staring at my crotch. I stared back, outraged. What the hell was his problem? He continued to stare and so I looked down. I gasped with horror. There it was. El Bosque de Robinson.
It was awful.
Look, friends. The Man left Argentina six weeks ago. I have not, obviously, had any rudies since then. And I almost immediately flew south where it was thermal long john weather, not bikini weather. Resultantly I have neglected my, er, well, myself.
I literally sprinted to the edge of the jetty and plunged, flailing, into the water, my fear of jumping off things into water miraculously lifted. I swam as far from the jetty as I could and cursed the lake for not having a little waxing station on the other side, or at least a few bics in a basket under a tree.
I won’t lie; getting out was shameful and involved a lot of crablike sideways movements. (I was so busy trying to shield the world from El Bosque that I managed to leave behind my sunglasses. Resultantly I am on pair of sunglasses #8 since leaving London.)
When we got back to our hostel, Marge accosted me and demanded I showed her El Bosque.
“Good GOD, Marge!” she yelled. “That is TERRIBLE! I demand you remove it immediately! I am not leaving Argentina until it is gone! The horror!”
And so later I am being marched off to a woman whose evil pot of hot brown goop will be matched only by the evil glint in her eye. I am terrified of the waxing ladies in Argentina. You have to supervise every single second of their activities or they’ll have the whole thing off quicker than you can say fanoir. It’s like cat and mouse – as soon as you think you’ve caught and apprehended them, they narrow their eyes, scuttle off and throw wax into yet another area that really should never see wax. You need nerves of steel and lightning-quick reactions. Given that I normally take a near-deadly combination of ibruprofen and paracetamol before visiting a waxing parlour, I possess neither of these things. Subsequently I often walk away feeling scandalised and somewhat violated; parts of me removed that I didn’t even know were there.
Ah. I see what I’ve done there. I’ve just written an entire blog about my nethers.
Thank god you have other bloggers here at MC who actually have something to say. Apols, guys. Apols.