Another dodgy airline ………… not nearly as bad as Delta ( and here we are comparing the mighty USA carrier with a small African airline mind you ). But nevertheless challenging on the olfactory senses. Mine are so sharp at the best of times and in such circumstances, it is a curse. Not only is the airport in Addis Ababa dreadful - there is not a square centimetre allocated to non smokers. Smokers have free reign everywhere. Then comes the plane and the passengers who make use of such a low cost airline. They have no toilet training whatsoever. Truly. This is no exaggeration.
My survival mechanism is to close my eyes, nose and mouth, with masks sprayed with lavender oil, and to pretend I am somewhere else.

The Spa from Hell
The setting was perfect. A crumbling 15th century Rajasthan palace fort in western India. Perched on the side of an acaia forested hill, with guest rooms oozing mystical magic, hanging gardens, fountains, ponds, turrets, terraces,mazes, secret nooks and crannies. Frequented by mournful peacocks, wild green parrots, monkeys, squirrels, swarms of huge bees.
I was on a marathon fabric buy-athalon in India and decided Sunday called for some downtime. Two hours out of Delhi – there it was – a fantasy hotel clinging to the hillside with impressive views over the village and Rajastani plains below. It was perfect.
But what is R&R without a good massage or spa treatment – I said to myself . Went to the dungeon to sign up and was told there was only a male therapist available. This dismal news resulted in my down grading from a full body package to a head, neck and shoulders deal. Note to self : – NEVER again agree to a male therapist !
an Indian man loves to parade his strength and manhood – hence the peacock as the national bird. So, having a desparate need to impress me with his brute strength, he proceeded to attack my head with the vigour of a borehole driller, determined to get the coconut cream into the depths of every single hair follicle on my scalp. The pile driving was interspersed with slaps to the crown and violent tossing of my head to and fro. He hurled my cerebellum from one extreme of my skull to the other , pummelling and shaking it like Krakatoa on a good day. I could bear it no longer.
I ordered him to stop immediately – ‘ok, lets move onto the shoulders “ I firmly suggested.
Well, the man had dead hands. No life, no feeling, no passion, no sensitivity. No pizzazz . I so pity his wife .
I gave up, ordered him to stop and asked to be shown to the shower. This was an experience in itself – no door, only a stone three walled cubicle in the foyer area offering no privacy whatsoever.
I left that spa feeling like a newly ploughed field after the oxen have passed over. Four washes later and the coconut cream still refused to budge from my hair.
So much for my R&R

Had a fragrant drive in from the airport - thanks in no small part to the sign on the taxi driver's dashboard!
Woke up in a pokey Hong Kong cubbyhole of a room with a full blown headache from hell – no doubt caused by an event the previous evening when I was mercilessly ripped off by a pimpley slanty eyed boy in an exchange booth. Threw the proverbial tantrum – ranting and wailing like a toy toying Zulu, but to no avail.
Decided only a Starbucks grande latte extra hot was all that could mend me, so went off pounding the streets of Kowloon in search of one.
Perched my buns in a comfy starbucks wingback which was literally hovering over the harbour water amidst ships and other harbourish related things – and slowly I began to find my equilibrium.
Caffeine injection complete, humour intact, I set out to pavement slog – searching for electronics for our stores. ( shopping for electronics must be a “boy thing “ because it really does nothing to turn me on.)
In between boring electronics shops, to maintain sanity , I nip into the occasional street market – selling piles of exotic fruit, barrels of spices, buckets of dying fish, flowers and plants unfamiliar to me, tourist trash, temple candles and fake money.
Back to the electronic stuff. Phew – you need an IQ of 148 to understand the stuff, and well………. I just don’t qualify. ( I can spot a fake Louis Vuitton bag though ).
More information overload and I still have no clue. Oh well, I will just have to go and find a nice cuppa tea ………. and a scone. ( Hong Kong ought to do scones – the British were here long enough to have taught them something valuable ).