Although I was inclined to frantic groin grabbing, inarticulate moaning, and random curling into balls, the last day of the holiday was a good one by any standards. The itinerary had me trying a body-conditioning class at the poolside, followed by aqua-aerobics. I enjoyed both and resolved to make a better effort to shake my thang when I returned home. A tasty Russian gym goddess who took both classes with me declared that I was very agile and flexible. Confidence inspiring, of course, though spoiled by the inevitable caveat "for a fat chick," which she tacked on in a barely audible but charmingly accented whisper. Later, I was booked into the beauty parlor where I was "pampered" — a shameless stretch of a definition if ever I heard one. I had my eyebrows threaded, an experience that I had considered torture until he decided to thread my moustache (humiliating), beard (mortifying), and nostrils (excruciating). As he passed my feet on his way to remove further hairy evidence of my Neanderthal ancestry, he sucked between his teeth in a way I had thought reserved for the use of British plumbers. He offered to remove my "huge" dead skin build up. While scraping, he wagged in my face to shame me. After he pedicured me, he massaged my feet, which made me laugh, especially as he was doing so in time to Egyptian music.
My facial was marvelous, particularly since there was no excess hair to slow him down. He extended his reach into my head hair and pulled delicious hanks of it hard enough to make me break into gooseflesh. The manicure was French, but no talons for me; I hate long nails unless they're raking into my flesh.
I emerged to discover Andrew had also had his mono-brow threaded, a huge improvement for any man who prefers to be spoken to with intelligence, and his nostrils were capaciously empty of hair (and bogies). His ear rims had been threaded too, and he pronounced them sexy enough to make a Ferengi envious. His haircut was long overdue and restored him to a man who looked like he might be able to stave off the number one razor cut for another year. (When his hair's longer, it looks thinner -- odd).
The princely sum of 25 pounds was handed over after we'd been worked over like film stars. What a deal! On the way out of the parlour, Andrew was offered ten camels and two Ferraris for me, an increased bid on the paltry five camels of the day before. What a difference a lack of beard growth can make for a woman's saleable worth. We suspected that the potential buyer had little means to complete the sale, or I'd have been wrapped in a bow and presented before I could say "But they're such ugly cars."
We had dinner, bought two leather pouffes, and went back to the room to escape the evening heat; today had been a hot one, and we were all burnt. Jamie continued to pester us to play with the bidet tap we'd discovered in the toilet, which was so powerful it was our opinion that it would actually blow the bog seat open and hit the wall beyond if there was no bum there to bore into. We concluded that this bidet could cope with the very worst of the Egyptian ab-dabs (a.k.a., Montezuma's revenge or the Sharm-el-Sheik shits).
That night, the packing beckoned. We knew we would argue -- we always argue. Especially since we had bought a pharaoh's treasure trove of goodies and had had little spare space on the way here.
Our holiday had been lovely, though marred with sickness. My bladder didn't enjoy it much, and my nose began to peel in a very unattractive way. In spite of my best efforts, I ate too much and burnt a Hallmark card border on the dark side of my breasts.
But the prospect of a return to an autumnal Scotland wasn't so bad, as we had a cosy fire to light, rambles through fallen leaves to enjoy, bonfire night to look forward to, and Christmas to plan. A late-summer holiday is to be recommended, and Egypt is a fine place to take it.
I do wonder, however, if my facial hair will grow in even thicker -- I may not need to buy a new winter coat this year.