I run away from the headache, but it hits me inside a shopping centre. I buy four dresses, two pair of shoes, two jumpers, two t-shirts, Dolce & Gabbana Eau de Toilette (and... erm... also L'eau par Kenzo), Playmobil-figures, Star Wars-legos and a bottle of Gewurztraminer. It doesn't help.
I drink two fresh juices called Bahama Sunrise in a bar, where three women wearing yellow outfits stand and smile behind a green desk and look how my deadly pale face scares the sunrise away.
In the evening we go hiking behind the hotel.
When we come back I feel like a pony again and jump across the street. My colleague saves me from being flattened by a car and throws me to the opposite direction.
Colleague: What an earth was that noise?
T Fox: What noise?
Colleague: Your breast said something!
T Fox: What? My breasts can't speak and besides I have to work with you in the same room, so if they do speak to you, don't mention it to me, please.
I stand up and wave a bit from side to side, but nothing is broken, except my bra.
We sit on the hotel's terrace and order some ice-cream.
I drop my spoon on the floor and spill some ice-cream on my new hiking dress and jumper. When I move myself my bra says sqweek-guiik-sqweek. My colleague tries to say something. I look up and see how some young arty people look at us. "Look, old people eat desserts", says one of them.
About Bourdain - To be honest, I’ve met rather too many chefs who were trying a little too hard to be Anthony Bourdain, whose death was announced today; some of them ended ...
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