One for the girls

Here’s a salutary tale about a hypothetical woman  who might have gone on holiday recently.

Yup, men, look away now because this is wimmin talk but before you go….

Do you know how to make a hormone?

Don’t pay her!

Have they gone? Ok, I’ll carry on.

So, this  hypothetical woman who may have gone on holiday recently, has hypothetical hormones that  you could set the proverbial clock by.   A few days in to the holiday, on a day when the ship she  was in  port her hormones decided to throw in a flanker and  summon Mother Nature to put in an appearance a full week earlier than expected.  Off course being a whole week early the appropriate supplies were in short….er….supply. I fact they were none existent.  The other important element here is that the ship was in a port  –  meaning that all the shops on board were closed. A fact that our heroine registered with a cry of, “Oh shit! The ships shop’s shut!!!”  Not easy to say under any circumstances, I feel.

To make matter even worse the ship was docked in Russia, a country which doesn’t allow cruise ship passengers to wander round willy nilly.  Ooohh nooo, if you want to leave the ship you have to be on an organised tour, the next one of which was the following day.  All was looking a bit dire for our heroine.

All meagre supplies were utilised which had the unfortunate effect of causing our heroine to walk as if she was riding an invisible horse. Luckily the tour booked for the following day was one that involved a bit of free time, enough time to buy in emergency supplies.  Of course before the free time there was the usual guided tour of the town on a dilapidated bus with hard bench seats for two and a half hours. Two and a half!! Our heroine was distraught.

Eventually the sheep tourists were let loose and our heroine and her handsome beau made a sharp escape from the crowd and down  a seedy side street to the nearest proper  shop. By proper I mean one that sold real stuff not just faberge eggs and matryoshka dolls.  Taking a deep steadying breath she marched (gingerly)  into the shop frantically looking round for appropriate ‘lady things’ hoping that there would be no need to speak as she wasn’t well versed in Russian. No such items showed themselves. Nothing else for it then.

She plastered a big smile on her face and walked up to the less than inviting looking assistant who had been sullenly eyeing her up since she came in. It wasn’t  an unreasonable assumption to think that she may have been a KGB agent or even a wrestler at one time.

“Er… do you have any er…. lady things,” muttered our heroine in a feeble voice while waving her hands in in a downward motion in roughly the correct anatomical area.  It was clear to see when comprehension dawned on the assistant as she recoiled with a disgusted look on her face, visibly shuddered and took a step backwards.

“No! No! we no have thees thing!  Vodka! We haf  only  the vaaaaaarrrrdka!”

By that time our heroine, could have done with a  stiff vodka, I can tell you.

Slinking out feeling like a leper she made her way to the next shop, a supermarket.  After searching the whole store and being unwilling to ask for fear of upsetting the locals again, the lady things were eventually located -right in front of the checkout.

The choice of items seemed to be limited to either extra large or super plus. These Russian women  must have some heavy flow going on. I did  eventually discover why the limited choice of sizes though.  It later became very obvious that  the tampons needed to be super plus because  they don’t so much  work as an absorbent as much as they do a plug –  but  you know, desperate times, beggars can’t be choosers  and all that.


At the checkout our heroine offered  a debit card, Euros, Danish Krone, Sterling and Estonian Kroon. “Nyet. Only rubles.”   Sod it!!

Luckily there was cash machine only a few feet away. In went the card. Out came the card. In went the card again. Out came the card with a warning; “next time we see it we’re keeping it now pi55 off.” That wasn’t exactly what it said but it was close enough.  Near to tears and becoming more shrill by the second out heroine was saved by her handsome  beau who’s card was accepted with no trouble at all, He extracted about 6 million rubles, about twenty quid, and all was well.

After purchasing the aforementioned goods they made a sharp exit, much to everyone’s relief a disaster was averted.

And so to the moral of the story: Never trust Mother Nature, she’s a sneaky little bitch who will creep up on you at  the most inopportune times and unexpected places in order to cause as much disruption as possible.

Always remember the boy scouts  motto. ‘ Be prepared.’

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