With last fall’s launch of the new Bridget Jones novel, I thought it would be fun to imagine what it would be like if Bridget came to surf camp…
Sunday 26 April
Alcohol units 18, cigarettes 4 (v. good), calories 8,339 (but I’m a surfer so it doesn’t matter), number of times LOLed 47.
6:45 a.m.: Woke up. Checked fridge for snacks. Disaster—mini bar is locked, need to talk to reception urgently.
7:00 a.m.: Yoga with gorgeous pretzel-like Brazilian instructor. She is going to help us find our inner bliss by week’s end. Made new resolution to start a daily practice of stretching, Om-ing, and deep breathing so I can look all Zen-ish like her.
8:00 a.m.: Buffet breakfast. Big fan of buffets.
9:00 a.m.: Surf time. Told instructor that my goal was to look like Kate Bosworth and be able to ride Pipe. She replied, “Let’s take things one step at a time.” I was a bit nervous about this surfing malarkey. However—I don’t want to sound boastful, dear diary–I performed magnificently. But enough of me trying on rashgaurds; next it was time to hit the waves. I adopted a facial expression of vulnerable bravery, one I copied from Princess Diana. Surfing was fun but boobs kept falling out of bikini. Thank god for rashguard, otherwise I would have given the boys a free show. Also, sand kept collecting in bikini bottoms and gave the appearance of wearing a sand nappy. The instructors had encouraged us all to smear white pasty zinc all over our faces, and my hair looked like I’d been to a Halloween party. In short, I don’t think I looked like the girls in the Roxy ads…
1:00 p.m.: Shattered, exhausted, starving, can barely open eyes. Somehow manage to eat delicious lunch of falafel, hummus, salad (South Beach Diet) and tiramisu (Miranda Kerr diet).
3:00 p.m.: Enjoyed après-surf activities (aka, lying in a hammock drinking cocktails, but green cocktails, therefore technically counts as vegetable consumption). A few of the other campers went out surfing again, but I decided to listen to my new inner bliss and just relax. I fell asleep and dreamt that Mark Darcy and me were on a mini-break in Central America and I was teaching him how to surf. He was very impressed with how easy I made it look. I was riding the waves in a nonchalant fashion like the girls in the Roxy ads, and boobs were not falling out. Woke up to find I’d dribbled green cocktail all over my new summer throw.
7:00 p.m.: More food. Mini bruschetta with pesto (bread, therefore F-plan diet), tuna steak with prawns (Paleo), passion fruit cheesecake (minor aberration on Atkins).
9:30 p.m.: Go to bed early because still exhausted from exertion. Was supposed to practice popups, but barely managed to pop out for a cigarette. Forgot to check in mirror to see if cellulite lard splurges on back of thighs had been replaced by taut toned surfer muscle.