For peace of mind, I recommend going to the Tokyo branch of Boots, where you can utilise, for a coin of the realm, their patented BMI machine. This device weighs you, measures you, and, with you gripping its high tech, stainless steel ‘antlers’,  analyses how speedily electric currents pass through your body – specifically, your fatty tissues – and delivers its verdict in the form of a small docket.

Mine stated my approximately 13.5 stone frame was composed of 40% fat. That’s more than five stone of blubber. Checking what this meant online, I deduced I was lucky to be alive, being obese to the point of immobility.

Do you remember that sketch from Not the Nine o’Clock news?

The only difference was their bellies were fake.

A few images from Seychelles.

A few videos, too:  Seychelles0902#

A traveller should never venture far without his personal bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide and his trusty Alum stone. I took neither, to a place of insanely high heat and humidity, and suffered the indignity of smelling like a stale baby’s nappy from constant, leaking perspiration, and then having to suffer the ritual outbreak of tingling pustules on my lower lip that turned over a number of days into a crusty, pizzalike protrusion that bled every time I opened my mouth.

I thought I had the answer to the cold sores, though. I had been reliably informed that repeated applications of one’s own urine to a burgeoning pustule would see it off in next to no time. I collected the yellow nectar in a plastic spoon and religiously applied finger dabs at regular intervals. At first, I was hopeful and confident, as it did seem to be halting the spread somewhat, but eventually I realised I was fighting a losing battle. Any urine I collected evaporated at such high speed in the heat, that often it was like applying sticky honey, which seemed more irritating than curative.  However, much as it may have looked and felt like honey, it certainly didn’t smell or taste like it, which probably contributed to the ‘baby nappy’ odour I carried around with me, like a private miasma.

I was woken from a fretful slumber around midnight. There was a sound like heavy rain, but there was no accompanying drilling noise from the tin roof. I clamoured out of bed and made my way in the dark towards the sitting room. I don’t know what dream I had awakened from, but for an instant I didn’t find it odd to be wading through what seemed to be a small river, as I wended my passage into the kitchen and discovered a sea of rising water, fed by a fierce cascade emanating from beneath the kitchen sink. Peering inside, I saw a pipe had burst.

I bleated out a distress signal and then hared off down the path to switch the water off at the mains. Having done that, we decided we would leave the mess until the morning, and return to bed. I was sweating fiercely from my short run, and went into the bathroom to have a shower. Of course, there was no water! I sluiced myself down with a bottle; but one of the peculiarities of this climate is that even the most innocuous activity can generate a head of perspiration and nervous energy that take an age to die down; and I found myself wide awake, hours later, nestling in a damp cocoon of bedding, listening to the steady drip of sweat as it ran off my forehead and nose, onto the pillow.

I discovered that Coco had changed the kitchen taps, replacing solid copper pipework with some flexible tube that was clearly made of substandard materials. It was what burst. The wrench Coco left behind was a lovely bit of kit, though!

I had prepared two separate boxes, one for the bike frame, the other for the wheels, and stuffed both full of frying pans, muesli, flip flops, mosquito tent and assorted stuff. They weighed in at 20kg each. I made them out of original, full length bike boxes from Halfords. Big mistake!

I got them to exactly the Air France regulation size; but when we pitched up at the check in desk, lo and behold, Mr Jobsworth himself was there. What was in these boxes? Err, mostly pans and muesli and clothes. Not bikes? No, not at all. Why, then, were they in bike boxes? I explained they were not ‘bike boxes’. per se, but bits of boxes that had once held bikes. The problem was, Mr Jobsworth continued, they had pictures of bikes on them, so the luggage minions would assume they were bikes, and since it took two minions to lift a bike, this added to Air France’s costs, which, he regretted to inform us, we would have to bear. 40 Euros each box.

If, I ventured, I had covered them in non transparent tape, so the bike pictures were blocked out, would they have been okay. Indeed, he said. How about, I suggested, I get them bubble wrapped? That would apparently be okay, too. Wait a moment, I then said. What about the second box? It doesn’t have a picture of a bike on it. No, he riposted, but it does say ‘Halfords‘.

We scurried to the bubble wrap place, where they only had clear polythene. We had our boxes wrapped, so now the bike picture and the ‘Halfords’ motif shone through  in gloss rather than matt, and headed back to check in, where we were informed by another Air France stalwart that we would have to pay 40 Euros for each box anyway, as they were non regulation size. I explained that they confirmed with measurement gleaned from Air France themselves. Yes, but they weren’t ’suitcases’. No, I agreed, but they held our entire wardrobe, and could therefore be deemed proper luggage.

Finally, they relented. But we had to take our boxes to a special drop off place, where they would be scanned. My mouth went dry as I considered the possibility of Mr Jobsworth asking the scanners to check my muesli story out. There were four packets of muesli in the boxes; but they were there as padding for the illicit bike.

The boxes proved of interest in Seychelles, too. We were one of the first out of the plane but the last through customs on account of choosing the immigration queue run by a lady on Valium. We strolled through the Nothing to Declare line and were asked what was in our boxes. I admitted to a bike. Asked to open a box, I worked up a nasty sweat ripping off the ludicrous plastic wrapping before exposing the contents. The customs man peered at the rusted frame of the Rudge, sighed and said in a dry fashion.

“One used bike”,

before dipping in and extracting a pair of bright yellow Crocs, a bag of Agar Agar, mud encrusted flip flops and a pot of jam. Thankfully, none of it was deemed worthy of import duty.

He sent us on our way, round the corner to the Air Seychelles desk where we were relieved of 88 Euros each for a one way ticket to Praslin. Iniquitous.

Needless to say, mosquitoes are still as plentiful as ever. So, whereas in England, we were living in one room of our house trying to keep warm, here we‘re living in two tents, trying to keep from being bitten :