Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Spent another sleepless night last night here at the hotel in Goa. Dumps is either
b) starving or
c) suffering from insomnia
and therefore wakes up several times a night to slap me across the face, pinch my neck or pull out pieces of my hair piece by piece.
Last night he screamed as though he were being tortured in hell – all because I wouldn't give him carte blanche to chew and otherwise mutilate my poor sore nipples all night. I think he knows the nursing gig is almost up and is experiencing premature anxiety – trying to drain every last drop of enjoyment and experience from his favourite pastime. I plan to stop on New Year's Eve. The reason I have not ceased this pretty much pointless exercise yet is three-fold:
1. I breastfed Egg for 13 months and it seems only fair to do the same for Dumps lest I get blamed for him turning into an axe murderer one day due to feeling unloved
2. I need to have a means of pacifying Noah's blood-curdling screams of fury on the nine hour flight back home in a few weeks
3. Just think how deliciously drunk I shall get on a mere few drinks come New Year's after having virtually (okay pretty much) been teetotal for the better part of two years
Actually, even though it is going to be heartbreaking for the wee fellow, it probably is for the best given the fact that he now feeds loudly, slurping like a fat drunk over a foamy pint of Guiness, and waves his arms around victoriously for all to see while I surreptiously try to conceal the fact that I am publicly nursing. I'm not even sure there is very much milk left to be honest, though I think that's beside the point for poor addicted Dumps, and I can only liken it to a nicotine crazed addict puffing away on a ciggie before a stop smoking seminar.
Today at 6am Jay left me with a screaming monster to go on a bike trip down south. The deal was that he'd be back in time for a late breakfast with us. However as it turns out, as soon as I heard the Enfield roar off this morning, Egg awoke with a start (he now LOVES motorcycles and is begging for a long roadtrip with Dada…God help me), jumped into bed with a red-faced Noah and myself, and them proceeded to play/fight with his brother on and off for the next several hours. The three of us were unfortunately room-ridden all morning and nearly went mad simply because I was too ashamed of having spawned the monsters who caused the occupants of Hotel Cavala to be awoken throughout the night and early morning by the sounds of an utterly irate and inconsolable infant.
The day began to look up as we went forward though, as I managed to wrangle myself a heavenly hour long massage in a cool room with a masterfully trained ayervedic masseuse named 'Deena'…soothing classical Indian music being piped gently through the soft whirring of the fan. This glorious massage cost the ripe old sum of £7. When they asked if I would be coming back it was all I could do not to suggest I come twice a day for the remainder of my holiday!
We rounded off the day by hopping a taxi to the infamous 'Anjuna Flea Market'. Every Wednesday traders from all over Goa hawk their wares in a giant field near the beach. Everything is for sale and anything from a silk bedspread to a leather purse to a haircut can be purchased. Once I used to get off on the haggling. These days I simply find it too exhausting and frankly can't be bothered. However without haggling you will find yourself quoted prices not unlike that of Harrod's in London, and after a few feeble attempts of snorting in disgust and rolling my eyes as I backed away from hawkers pleading, "You tell me YOUR best price Madam…I make you good price…come back!" I decided to just not bother and merely bought a cool brass outdoor lamp from a vender who was so chilled out that I wanted to ask him if I could have some of whatever he was on.
After the market we hightailed it to our favourite Tibetan place for yet some more 'Momo's' (steamed vegetable and cheese dumplings eaten with delicious broth and covered in fresh garlic, soy sauce and hot chili sauce. As I announced to Jay mid-mouthful tonight, it would definitely be my deathrow meal. (His for the record would be sushi from Nobu…). We topped off the delicious meal with melt-in-your-mouth banana fritters in homemade toffee sauce and two huge steaming cups of Indian Masala Chai.
People it just doesn't get better than this. Even the annoying 'holier-than-thou' buddha-loving ladies beside us (one of whom errupted in gentle tears during dinner) and the loud, common south Londoners at the other table commenting on the 'cheap-as-chips' food in Goa, weren't enough to put us off what was simply a divine repast.
Now I've just got to find a way to barricade my breasts from a fiercesome night bat who is already eyeing them up from across the bed and giggling his dirty laugh in anticipation. When the lights go out I get eaten alive and we both know who's going to win this war. When you hold the only key to silencing what is one of the most horrifically loud screaming tantrums known to man, the only decision is to 'take it for the team'.
Twenty-six days and counting…