The Wrong Trousers. the Brown Trousers and I get emotional in a Hoi An tailorshop

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I didn't quite make the entrance I intended into Hoi An. There were 2 reasons for this. Firstly when I woke up my sunburnt bose was covered in bloody scabs. I looked as if I'd been dragged down the road nose down. Several times. Waiters blanched. People kept staring at my nose with peculiar fascination. And the second reason was that the lightly elasticated traveller type trousers that I had invester $4 in turned out to be SO lightly elasticated that while checking in at Nha Trang airpoty, I suddenly realised I was displaying a goodly portion of Mand S black lacy knicker. Whatever brand of 'elastic' (and I use the term as loosely as it gripped my hips) it was a totaly stranger to the invention of lycra. I had to walk around with my hands glued to my sides to keep my trousers up. Unfortunately when we arrived at Da Nang and got off the plane, I forgot about my clothing malfunction and as I was getting off the plane my trousers fell down.

The plane journey itself included a first. (but not of the class kind). As we were all finding our seats I began to smell what I thought was a particularly evil fart. It got stronger. We all began exchanging suspicious sidelong glances at our neighbours. Suddenly a huge commtion of shouting and yelling and dry heaving kicked up behind, I turned round to look, almost vomited at the reek and saw, sitting plumb in the middle of the aisle a freshly manufactured, good sized, oily , glistening turd. Total uproar! An entirer plane of poeple went absolutely hysterical over a poo. The offender was a 3 year old boy who wasn't allowed into the loo before take off by a now (very regretful and mortified) air steward. The engines were turned off, operation poo removal ensued. I thought it was quite funny once everyone had stopped retching and shouting at the air steward.

So when I got to the hotel, instead of strolling in with the clam insouciance and devil may care swagger of the seasoned cosmopolitan traveller, I waddled in, holding my trousers up, looking like a bubonic plague refugee and possibly smelling - albeit, very very faintly, of shit. You know in the film 1984 when John Hurt gets up from the torture couch and shuffles over to the mirror - but no - of course I exaggerate....my nose is way more scabby/

'What is happened to your nose?' asked the hotel manager. 'It's sunburnt'. I answered. 'Oh'...he paused while digesting this information thoughtfully. 'I have never seen it do that before', he pointed out unnecessarily and, let's face it, not totally helpfully.

The hotel is fabulous. My room is a FLAT. A bathtub the size of Bucks, sitting room and bedroom. Internet, dvd...I could almost never go out.

And perhaps I shouldn't. I really think this is the sort of place that I should be banned from coming to. Art, beautiful clothes, jewellery, lovely restaurants, pagodas, - all so peaceful and beautiful set by a river. It's a crime I'm here alone really. In theory.

Was in a tailor's shop when the Royal Wedding was on - live! Saw Katherine arrive and she and William make their vows. Actually I felt really choked up and suddenly a very very long way from home, friends and family.

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