Right where were we, oh that’s right back in Majorca, and it’s my sister’s 29th birthday.

My sister goes by Woozy Boos, which is my mum’s doing. I was nicknamed Woody as a child, for no logical reason, and things escalated from there. Anyway. A 29th birthday apparently means only one thing in my goofy world: I must dress as a budget Playboy bunny, fashion the shoddiest of signs, and press my oversized nose against the arrivals window in direct competition with my mum to spot her first.

I win. She comes skipping down the travelator at breakneck speed, and our getaway driver Papa Pedro whisks us back to paradise.

It’s her actual birthday, so she expects the works: cake, balloons, the whole shebang. Sadly for her, Mum and I have been caught up once again in our new occupation as David Bailey and Kate Moss, this time capturing me in my pineapple best, so this Playboy bunny spectacle is the height of birthdaydom this year.

She ain’t impressed & she lets us know about it. I make a mental note to do much better for her 30th next year & think that I’ve done myself a huge favour by reducing her expectations so drastically this woeful birthday to enable easy over delivery the following year (which I do very well by the way). You’ve got to love my sunny disposition. Airport based anger aside, I am pretty good at brushing off negativity & criticism. Six years earlier after coming out the other side of my stalker hell hole & exiling for two years in Marbs (poor me) I felt compelled to commemorate my return home with a tattoo on my foot as a reminder not to be bitter about this unwanted life interruption. It reads in Spanish “Todo sucede por una razon bella” which cheesily translates as “Everything happens for a beautiful reason”. Its great as it means I can literally never get mad & provides me with all manner of excuses for poor form. Like now.

I do wonder if my then boyfriend, a gorgeous Brazilian sushi chef, who accompanied me & spontaneously decided to have the same tattoo on his wrist feels the same way about this magical script. I hope so because for some reason he really jumped in the deep end that day. He not only had it written in Spanish like me, which was the language we spoke to one another, but he also had it in Portuguese; his native language, English; my native language & then inexplicably… he chose to have it in Hindi for my Indian forefathers!! Erm what? Didn’t have the heart, or the vocabulary, to explain to him that my Dad is Anglo Indian & as such my heritage is more likely to be Italian Catholic than Hindu but oh well. It looked pretty. Four languages wrapped around his wrist with a black bangle either side. Very Cleopatra. Too bad we broke up 3 weeks later. He must have been living by this new found philosophy though as it didn’t stop him from commemorating our break up with yet another tattoo, this time of MY name on his HAND! Of all the places! With the year we met, a mere 9 months prior. Bless him. Nothing like being reminded of your ex girlfriend every time you brush your teeth, wash your face, take a phone call, cook a meal, drive your car, eat, pray, wank… tweak another girls nipple… Yep I said it. Nice guy. Wish him all the best.

Anyway my sister gets over it pretty quick after we shove a candle in a Spanish tortilla & get her tipsy on cava refills & a few days of sub standard celebrating & compiling my tax return later it’s time to fly home. I shed a little tear popping the balloons in my grape ensemble after my mum vetoes me from wearing it on the plane, even though a few hours later I would have to painfully blow them all up again for my cousin’s crazy hubby’s 30th fancy dress party that evening.

At the party, unbelievably someone else is actually dressed as a bunch of grapes too, I cant believe it, what are the chances & dare I say it hes pulling it off more than me. Oh the shame.

Craig, if you’re reading this, your window has well and truly closed. I can’t believe it, we found a better looking grape.