"The Beautiful South"

We were up and ready with time to spare. The taxi arrived on time and delivered us to the ferry terminal without any mishaps. The ferry arrived and our bags were loaded on board. We were still waiting for something to go wrong. But by half eight, we were on-board the ferry and struggling against the strong sea wind on the top deck. Amazingly, everything went according to Mrs Top Hat's revised plan.

The ferry from Wellington to Picton is a three-hour crossing, leading through the stunning Malborough Sound and the Cook Strait. As the sun was shining brightly, we spent most of the journey on deck, looking at the jaw-dropping scenery; bright blue, clear waters and glorious green islands. It was the scenery you would expect to see in travel brochures. Except these views were not touched up in PhotoShop.

After a while, we were both too hungry to stay on deck sight-seeing, so we ventured into the ferry cafeteria. We both ordered a traditional English breakfast, though as I am a notoriously fussy eater, mine was light of a few items. And no matter what Mrs Top Hat says to me about poor nutrition and being difficult, I know for a fact that on that ferry crossing, she wishes she had my eating habits. 

The meal on my plate looked horrific though. I was told by the member of staff at the till that I had dry toast, bacon and sausages, but I wasn't convinced. As far as I could see, I had been served a severed hand holding a bathroom tile. The man insisted that this was a normal breakfast, but if that was the case, how come one of my sausages was wearing a ring?

Mrs Top Hat's morning monstrosity was even worse. She too had the severed hand, but hers was accompanied by a gangrenous eye and a red mess that could well have been something's heart. Eggs and tomatoes apparently.

It's not often that we return our plates with a lot of food on. I mean, we were even able to eat half of that dreadful pizza in Wanganoui. But this time, we returned our plates with more on than they had originally contained. I'm sure their chefs blame all the vomit on the to-ing and fro-ing of the sea. At least the tea was recognisable and reasonable.

"Look! Look! Dolphins!" an Australian man shouted out to everyone in the cafeteria. He was pointing out of the filthy Perspex windows. There was no need for him to shout, as everyone had been able to eavesdrop on his conversation quite easily before he raised his voice. Like most of the Aussies we came across, he was very...audible. We peered through the grime and caught sight of two dolphins bounding through the water, criss-crossing each other as they tried to overtake the ferry. They moved quickly as they bounced along but we were able to get a good look of them as they frolicked. I found the sight surprisingly under whelming. Sure, they are beautiful creatures but I'd expected to get some sort of buzz out of seeing them in the wild. It didn't happen. Maybe they have been overexposed on television and have lost their mystique. They should get a new agent.

Still hungry, I moved back up to the windswept deck. The islands were closer now and reminded me of Scaramanga's home in The Man with the Golden Gun. It was like a cross between the Bahamas and a rainforest. I whipped the camcorder out and started filming. Even with my NYPD Blue style filming and the Day After Tomorrow whirlwinds, the footage turned out to be very impressive.

I couldn't take any more of the wind. I couldn't feel my face, but I knew that my eyeballs were dangling somewhere down past my chin. It's a good job I don't have much hair or that would have blown off in the wind too, along with the top of my scalp. It was so windy that I couldn't even open the door to get back inside...yes, even with my Herculean physique! Eventually, some giraffe-like woman used her gangly legs to force the door open from inside. A Rigsby once said, I must have loosened it for her. Once inside, I found Mrs Top Hat and we relaxed in the lounge area. The seats were arranged similarly to those on a plane, but there was much more legroom. I fell asleep to the sound of some Cockney woman droning on about her bloody grandchildren and their mobile phones.

Things continued to go smoothly when we arrived at Picton. We got another Suzuki Swift from Thrifty without any hassle and they didn't charge us for the day we had missed thanks to the Wellington mishap. The drive from Picton to Kaikoura was long, but not without its merits. On the way, we stopped off at a lovely bay area and ate what little food we had with us.

It was late afternoon when we arrived in Kaikoura. The motel studio looked modern and clean from the outside and didn't disappoint on the inside either. It was one of the few places that offered a DVD player, so we made use of the facility and looked at some of Mrs Top Hat's photos on screen and also watched my crooked video footage. The man who ran the Kaikoura Top Ten Holiday Park (the place where we were staying) was very friendly and offered to help us book a seal swimming trip for the following day. He also informed us that as we had called him yesterday to let him know that we weren't going to make it for our first reserved night, he had been able to rent out 'our' chalet and so we wouldn't have to pay for both nights. Just goes to show that Bob Hoskins was right - it's good to talk. I can't imagine the same thing happening in Britain though.

We hurriedly changed and nipped into Kaikoura town - the town Newquay in Cornwall wishes it was. We quickly browsed the variety of shops, many of which were surfing or sea based, and then made our way up to a coastal walk.

We walked along the route until early evening, taking in the wonderful views of the sea and the strange beaches. I was amazed to see how the Kiwis had dealt with their homelessness problem...they had created a steak beach that anyone could come and eat.

That evening, we ate locally. The food was tasty and Mrs Top Hat received a complimentary glass of wine which seemed to put her at ease. We went to bed early, wondering what the seal swim would entail. I didn't fancy going out to sea...there's some nasty creatures live out there and I couldn't see a seal doing a Lassie and protecting us from harm.

"The Best Laid Plans..."

Day 6 was supposed to involve a simple drive south, through Levin to Wellington. Once in Wellington, or Welly as I like to call it, we were to take the Interislander ferry to the south island. Once there, we faced a three hour drive to a coastal town called Kaikoura.

Well at least we made it to Wellington.

The journey south from Wanganui was fairly uneventful. We just enjoyed the empty countryside and the bright sun. Seeing as it was fast approaching winter in New Zealand, we had been very lucky with the weather; every day so far had been a scorcher (apart from the day we landed, but we were in no state to enjoy it then anyway).

We arrived in Wellington early so we decided to try and find out where we had to drop the Suzuki off. After some very illegal Grand Theft Auto style road manoeuvres, I managed to swing the little blue heap into the Ferry rental car terminal. Bastard! We'd forgotten to fill it up with petrol. And so it was back out into Wellington.

Wellington, unlike everywhere else we had been so far, was very much like a British city. Although nowhere near as hectic as London or Birmingham, it boasted many discourteous drivers, maniac cab drivers and bizarre one way systems. By the time I'd driven us to the Shell petrol station I'd sweated out most of the previous night's hideous slaughterhouse pizza. In the process, I had saturated the car seat and it whiffed like a mummy's bandage.

"You're doing well, love. Don't worry." Mrs Top Hat reassured me as I reversed out of the entrance lane into oncoming traffic. I was all too aware that we had yet to book a ticket on the ferry and the words of the woman in The Riverside Motel were haunting me: "You haven't booked a ticket? You might have left it too late now." I put my foot down and accelerated into the main road that led to the ferry terminal. I felt a little bit nervous in the Suzuki as it wasn't the fastest car off the mark and I don't think the dead pedestrians that were trapped to the wheel arches were helping matters either.

At the ferry terminal, I left the car parked at an unsociable angle and struggled towards Departures with our luggage. As we were being outpaced by an armless wheelchair user, I urged Mrs Top Hat to go ahead while I struggled with our bags. When I got to the terminal doors, I could see Mrs Top Hat looking concerned.

"We can't go until tomorrow." she said. I could tell by her expression that she was waiting for me to explode. I didn't. Not because I was being gallant and trying to spare her - I simply didn't believe her. But it was true. The afternoon ferry that we had hoped to catch had been cancelled and all those with tickets had been put onto the evening ferry so that was fully booked. We were trapped in Wellington with nowhere to go. I had visions of sleeping in the ferry terminal, just like I had slept in Gothenburg railway station many years ago.

"We'll have to play it by ear and get somewhere to stay for the night." I told Mrs Top Hat. "It's not that bad - it's only one night."

"But we'll miss out on seeing the whales." Her face scrunched up and her head retreated into her neck like Sandy Toksvig. There was no denying it, we wouldn't be able to see the whales as planned, but then there's no guarantee that you will get to see them anyway.

Amazingly, we didn't behave like female contestants on The Apprentice and turn on each other. There was no blaming or shouting; we just sorted it out. In less than an hour, we had booked a hotel in Wellington, postponed the car hire in the south island and informed the Kaikoura motel that we were supposed to stay in that night that we were not going to turn up. And so we found ourselves being bounced through the streets of Wellington by New Zealand's most erratic taxi driver.

"I can't believe you didn't make any contingency plans." I said as I collapsed onto the bed in the hotel room, a motion that was fast becoming my signature move. Mrs Top Hat turned to face me slowly. Her head started to spread into a flat wedge. Oh no, she was turning into a cobra again. I smiled, hoping that she would realise that I was mucking about. Luckily, she cottoned on just in time and her fangs punctured the duvet instead of my throat.

It's funny how Mrs Top Hat thinks it is perfectly acceptable for her to go nuclear if I cock something up, but I have to act like a Buddhist monk when she makes a boo-boo. I hate to think what would have happened if our roles had been reversed and I hadn't booked a ferry ticket in advance...I know one thing, it would have required military intervention to calm her down.

But it was unfair to give her any more hassle. After all, how could she have known that you need to book the ferry in advance? And how could she have known that the ferry would be cancelled? Well, she knows everything else doesn't she?

The day in Wellington turned out to be a welcome relief. We were able to check out the huge museum which is full of interactive information about New Zealand, and is, to be honest, quite boring. But even though it didn't excite and dazzle, it gave us a break from driving and tackling the great outdoors.

In the evening, we enjoyed a lovely curry from one of the restaurants in Cuba Street and made our way back to the hotel where Mrs Top Hat was able to catch up with American Idol. So she was happy. And when she's happy, my life gets a whole lot easier.

The only down side to the day was an unexpected bout of the blues, triggered by a visit to the Sony store. In there, I saw the new Playstation 3 being shown off. It was priced at almost half the UK price and made me think of how consumers don't know whether they are coming or going. Not only do we get ripped off in the UK, but as soon as one thing comes out, its successor is on the market. It was only a year ago that people were rushing to buy an XBox 360. I had planned on getting one myself, but now the PS3 was looking a better prospect. And then I saw the range of cameras. Again, the same cheap prices and range of models that are out of date within weeks. These companies have got us all by the balls.

So I drifted off to sleep in a sombre mood and with Simon Cowell's words rattling around my subconscious. That can't be good for you. I just hoped that the first thing on my mind in the morning would be that the thing Simon Cowell likes about me is that I am contemporary. He loves that word doesn't he?

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"Footloose"

I'd suffered the twenty-odd hours in a cramped plane, put up with the discomfort, the jet lag, the seized up legs, the obnoxious passengers and the diabolical food. I'd blown all my savings on this trip - and for what? An absolutely spectacular walk that I would never forget.

From the rough, cracked folds at the bottom to the crater-like wounds and reddened, almost blood coloured marks at the top, the vision that was before me was something you just don't get to see back in England. I was, of course, looking intently at the hideous blood blister that had formed on my toe following the mighty hike over the Tongario Crossing. Although the volcano was mightily impressive up close too.

We began the day at 5.30, which might sound horribly early, but thanks to jet lag, it felt perfectly natural. In fact, throughout our stay we consistently rose from our pit between 6 and 7. It was dark outside and a little nippy, so we made sure we were dressed in suitable attire and gathered with the other explorers; a gang of three remarkably overdressed Germans (it was a one day trek in fairly clement weather, not an Antartic expedition after all), a young English couple in light waterpoofs, and an Australian couple wearing the Aussie national dress of vest, khaki shorts and hiking flip-flops or 'thongs' as they call them. They had decided to protect themselves from the cold by adorning black silk leggings, giving them the effeminate appearance of a French footballer. Oh, and there was one other older couple - a tall, elegant Australian woman probably in her 60s and her partner, a rough bearded Harold Shipman look-alike who seemed to communicate in a series of grunts.

A fifteen minute ride into the morning darkness saw us arrive at the foot of Mount Ngaurahoe. The walk began on green and rocky terrain, similar in many ways to the Peak District back home. Towering above the surf of green mounds and dagger peaks, Ngauruhoe cast its dark shadow down upon us menacingly, the great dark bastard.

The first two hours of our trek led us up past the rolling hills into a rocky incline where every step proved treacherous. From there, we progressed to a flattened, crater like area. We looked around to see an almost Martian landscape, all copper dust and huge boulders. We made our way through the coarse orange-red sand of the crater towards the loose, pointed teeth of the pathway that led out of the crater towards the pools.

Half way up, we stopped to take on some fluid. The sun was beating down on us mercilessly. As both Mrs Top Hat and myself are very fair skinned, and we had been warned about sun burn, we decided it was time to apply some sun block. I rummaged through my rucksack but couldn't find it. Mrs Top Hat searched her bag and couldn't find it either. She exploded with more fury than Ngaurahoe could ever muster.

"I told you to pack it this morning!" she hissed through gritted teeth.

"No. You said to find it. You never said to pack it." I was clutching at straws.

"Yes I f**king did! I don't believe this. We are going to burn!" Her voice sent gigantic boulders tumbling down from their perches.

"You never said pack it, otherwise I would have packed it!" I continued.

"You won't even admit it now will you? That's it, I've had enough."

With that, Mrs Top Hat stormed off. I waited a moment, then emptied my bag more carefully. There, in a plastic bag, was the sun block.

"I've got it!" I laughed as I yelled out. Mrs Top Hat quickly returned and it was nice to see her mood had lifted instantly.

"You're a f**king idiot." she snapped.

We applied the thick white sun block in almost total silence.

"We would have been burned so badly up here." Mrs Top Hat spoke up at last.

"We'd have been okay." I insisted. "We'd have had to improvise. Keep our skin covered up, that's all."

"Oh, and how are you going to cover your head?" she said. A little jab at the prickly subject of my ever increasing baldness.

I pulled my cap out of my bag. Touche.

"Oh stop...stop being so logical!" Mrs Top Hat smiled for what seemed the first time in three years. (Funnily enough, that's how long we have been married.)

Looking like The Joker and a Geisha we made our way to the stunning lake pools. Shimmering opal green and electric blue, they looked like floating swimming pools in the distance. Up close, they were just as beautiful. We sat at the edge of the lake and ate our packed lunch. As we scoffed, I looked up at the volcano and studied its pock marked tip, where a stretch of raw looking red rock marked its surface like a burn. If the earth ever had a zit, Ngaurahoe is what it would look like.

From the glorious pools, we made our way down the other side of the mountain. We had been warned that it was a long, winding walk that would put some stress on our knees. I feared the worst, but my knees and ankles held out okay as the decline seemed to be quite gradual. After an hour or so, we came to a hut. Mrs Top Hat needed the carsy, so made use of the facilities on offer. She came out looking like she'd discovered a mass grave.

"It's just a hole in the ground! There's shit splattered everywhere!" she managed to blurt out between vomits. "Honestly, it looks like it has been used by bears."

I decided to hold mine in.

Then came the pain. We made our way down the far side of the mountain, criss-crossing gentle streams and clambering over uneven boulders. In the distance, we could see a path leading into wooded land. We assumed it was part of another walk.

My feet sang out in pain. Every step felt like an electric shock. Finally, we reached a rest point and the promise of rescue. Mrs Top Hat scanned the area, looking for a sign. Nothing. A group of Maori schoolchildren and their teachers sat on the benches and fences that surrounded the area. They were rowdy, but pleasant, and all seemed intent on saying 'hello'. Looking around, I couldn't see a path out of there either.

"Do you know where we are supposed to go?" Mrs Top Hat asked the powerfully built Maori teacher who was sat on the bench to our left.

"It's down there." he smiled and gestured behind him. As with all of the Maori people we had encountered, he was very open and friendly. Behind him, a gravel path led into woodland. Nobody mentioned woodland at the start of the walk.

Crickets rubbed their wing casing, flies buzzed to and fro, and unseen critters shifted in the dense foliage. It was like a jungle and every painful step seemed to take us into deeper, darker territory. An hour passed and we were in dense forest and hadn't seen any other hikers. I was starting to get worried. Images of that smiling Maori flashed in my head.

"Do you get the feeling that that Maori was lying to us?" Mrs Top Hat asked.

"Maybe they had come up another route and thought we wanted their route." I replied, convinced that we were going the wrong way.

"Should we turn back?" Mrs Top Hat stopped and asked.

"No, let's carry on." I insisted. My feet were too sore to face an uphill trek. If we got lost in here, we'd have to try and do a Ray Mears and survive for the night. I'd rather have faced the embarrassment of being rescued that turn around and walk back up.
My feet sang out in pain as we plodded on. I tried to take my mind off them by concentrating on Mrs Top Hat's jiggling arse in front of me, and it worked for a while.

"I need a pee." Mrs Top Hat whispered, obviously concerned that one of the jungle critters would overhear her and be outraged.

"Do it in the bushes." I advised.

"No, I'll hold on until the next toilet." she insisted.

A few steps later.

"I've got to pee."

Mrs Top Hat dropped anchor and relieved herself at the side of the path. At last, she finished and we continued walking. Perhaps ten to fifteen feet - the trees receded quicker than my hairline to reveal the car park. Trust Mrs Top Hat to spray all over the place just a couple of feet from the nearest toilet!

We completed the walk in just under 6 hours, a good time so we are told.

That night, our last at The Discovery Lodge, we dined on an exquisite chilli con carne with nachos followed by a delicious chocolate cake with ice cream. The best dinner we had in our whole stay in New Zealand. So if you are staying at The Discovery Lodge, don't be put off by your first impression. It is a nice place to stay.

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And so the New Zealand adventure began in earnest. Up nice and early, I decided not to brush my teeth just out of spite. Having gathered our senses and our luggage, we boarded the shuttle bus to Auckland airport where we planned to hire a car and hit the road to Rotourua.

Mrs Top Hat had budgeted for the car hire before we had set off from England, but what she hadn't bargained on was the prices at the airport being somewhat higher. Her carefully laid out plans were coming a cropper already, just as I had expected. I didn't rub it in too much though...after thirty or so 'I thought you had worked this all out' comments, I got bored of it myself.

Frustrated, we turned our attention to the other car hire dealerships. Hertz looked expensive and so did Avis, so we opted to try Thrifty. "It shouldn't take too long." Mrs Top Hat assured me as we dragged our luggage to the desk like farmers pulling along a plough.

"So let's see if I've got this right." the Thrifty sales woman said after a good forty minutes, "You want to take a car from here and drop it off in Wellington, then pick up another car up in Nelson and drop that one off in Nelson ten days later?"

"No, we want to pick up a car in Nelson and drop it off in Queenstown, then pick up another car in Nelson." Mrs Top Hat explained for the umpteenth time, "Then we want another car in Wellington which we will eventually drop off in Auckland."

"Oh right. I'll have to start this again. So, you want a car from here to Wellington, then pick up another car in Nelson which you'll drop off in Nelson again twenty days later?"

Oh Jesus Christ. This was our first real encounter with a Kiwi in a customer service role, but we soon learned that this type of experience is quite common. The Kiwis are incredibly friendly and make every effort to make you feel welcome, but just don't ask them to work anything out!

"We may as well walk." I said, sarcastically.

"Hey, he's right. It might be quicker hey?" The sales woman agreed. At least they have a sense of humour.

A good hour later, we had finally hired a car with additional insurance and were ready to set off. We'd gone for a small, 1.2l Suzuki Swift to keep petrol costs down. Now, we weren't expecting the car to provide much space, but we did think it would have some sort of suspension. With our bags in the tiny boot, the car's rear axel was digging into the tarmac like a pneumatic drill. With the sun blazing away, we set off in our Suzuki Shit, leaving Auckland behind us in a shower of sparks, chipped concrete, and catapulted stones.

We had been on the road for around an hour when I noticed that we were guzzling petrol at an alarming rate. "F**k me, this thing's a bit thirsty." I remarked rather eloquently. We'd gone through almost half a tank, and I'm sure we had only travelled two miles. The Suzuki wasn't handling particularly well and felt sluggish. Piece of shit.

"It's in third,  you idiot." Mrs Top Hat pointed out. She was right as well. The Suzuki gear shift had the same position for third and drive - you just flick it to the left for third and to the right for drive. An easy mistake to make! Thank God, the wonderful little Suzuki managed to cope with my arsery.

Hell's Gate is a popular tourist attraction just outside of Rotourua. It got its name from George Bernard Shaw - you know, him that used to have that dog, Shnorbitz. I must say, it is an impressive place. Positioned at the base of some innocent looking, tree-lined hills, Hell's Gate is a series of geothermal pools. And they stink. Most people think they smell of rotten eggs, but to me, the stench was a toxic mix of boiling piss and Mrs Top Hat's shepherd's pie. If you've tasted Mrs Top Hat's shepherd's pie, you'll probably be wondering what's the difference…and you'd have a good point.

The pools of Hell's Gate are a completely alien landscape; something I doubt you could see anywhere else in the world. Except maybe Chernobyl. We walked up dusty, pale rock paths, passing by sizzling pools and gargling brown monstrosities that will be a familiar sight to anyone who has ever followed through in the bath.

For a small fee, visitors can enjoy a private mud bath and then share a sulphur pool. We took them up on this offer and were soon relaxing in the mud, in the nip. The mud bath was very warm, with water coming up to chest height. The mud at the bottom felt like sand at first, but the longer we spent in there, the more I became convinced that it was sucking me down.

Straight from the mud bath, we got our swimming costumes on and entered the sulphur pool. From the edge it looks like any other outdoor swimming pool. But the instant you enter its waters you realise your mistake; it is like walking into a vat of Lemsip. It fizzes and stings every pore of your body and you can't really tell whether it is uncomfortable or worryingly pleasing. It makes you feel clean anyway.

As evening came, we ventured into Rotourua itself and booked ourselves into the Midway Motel, a comfortable motel with a stunning extra – an indoor, thermally heated pool. Many of the motels in Rotourua offer this (they probably all use it to save on the heating bills, but then, if you've got a volcano on your doorstep, why not?). Our pool was in the bathroom under a circular chrome lid. I only managed to sit in the thermal waters for a few minutes before I noticed I had melted almost up to my scrotum. I soon felt better when Mrs Top Hat poured me a cup of hot tea though…made with the lava from the kitchen taps.

By now we were starving so we headed off into Rotourua. It looked similar to many of the small American towns we had visited three years ago when we got married. Blocks of wide roads and plenty of large stores. But no people. The place was a ghost town. It was surreal seeing a town centre completely devoid of drunken tarts, yobbos, and steaming puddles of vomit.

Finally, we found a place to eat – an American looking diner on a street corner. We rejoiced when we discovered it was a buffet and prepared to stuff ourselves silly. But then we saw the food. Honestly, Emirates airlines could teach these people a thing or two about food! The rice had a soft texture that rather unfortunately made me think of particularly large black heads and I may be mistaken, but I'm sure the meat I tasted was somebody's burned foot. The deserts were little better, with a variety of stale tasting cakes and chalky cream tarts on offer.

You know a buffet is bad when you're as tight as me and only have one course.

"Turning the Other Cheek"

Things didn't turn nasty until we arrived at the hotel room in Auckland. I'd expected divorce proceedings to begin during the twenty-odd hour flight, but apart from some mild aggression towards the selfish seat reclining bastards sat in front of us, we'd coped quite well. We hadn't turned on each other, and that was the main thing. But that soon changed as we began to unpack and settle down.

The first sign of our tempers flaring was as the plane touched down in Auckland. Mrs Top Hat looked out at the dismal grey buildings of the airport, moistened by the drizzling rain. She turned to look at me and noticed my furious expression immediately.

"What's the matter love?" she asked, concerned.

"I don't f**king believe it!" I yelled, partly due to my frustration and confused state and also because I was suffering 'Walkman' syndrome, having lost my hearing from the descent.

"What's up? What's wrong?" Mrs Top Hat asked again.

"The b***ards have brought us back to England!".

It was an easy mistake to make. Clouds, rain, dull grey buildings, lots of tired and miserable looking people.

Mrs Top Hat assured me that everything was all right and calmed me down. But it wasn't long before my face was the colour of a freshly lanced boil again.

"Where have you put my toothbrush?" I asked, quite politely.

"I've not had it." Mrs Top Hat replied, just as politely.

"Where have you put it? You've had it!" I pinned her down on the floor and gripped her neck as tightly as I could manage. "Where is it?!!" I demanded as I squeezed harder, until the veins on her neck started to swell and her forehead resembled a rather accurate map of Greater London.

Mrs Top Hat wriggled and escaped my grasp. "I told you to pack your toiletries before we left, you idiot." She yelled as she stabbed me in the heart with a Parker pen.

Boy, did we need to get some sleep.

Back in England, Mrs Top Hat had quite clearly instructed me to leave all the toiletries to her. So I did...until the day before we left, when I noticed that she had not packed any of my razors. So I made some last minute additions to my luggage, just in case she'd forgotten anything else. But I didn't pack a toothbrush - that was her responsibility.

I slumped, defeated on the bed, trying to ignore the stench of tramp's hair that wafted from between my teeth. I rubbed the back of my arm against my front teeth and recoiled at the sight of thick plaque yoghurt up my sleeve. How could she forget my toothbrush?!! Suddenly, I found myself face down in the pillow...the soothing, comforting pillow.

My head was banging when I woke up and there was a strange fluttering noise. Jesus Christ, there's a bat in the room! It flashed past my head before doing a full circle and clattering into the window. Oh hang on, it's just some sort of tit. I lifted my head up and looked at the huge burn on the bed cover where my satanic breath had scorched the cloth. Mrs Top Hat stirred beside me.

"What is it, love?" she asked as she squinted into the afternoon sun that blasted in between the tropical looking leaves that rustled against the outside of the window.Her voice was quiet and calm. Maybe everything would be okay now, I thought, having calmed down a little myself.

We released the bird and I tried to forget that someone had once told me that it was bad luck to have a bird in your house. It doesn't count for hotel rooms, does it?

Having settled our earlier differences out of court, we ventured out and took a short walk into the neighbourhood. The houses were largely wooden and looked similar to American houses. The streets were pretty much deserted and there didn't seem to be any sign of shops or a restaurant. Still tired and weary from the journey, we returned to the hotel and ate in the hotel restaurant. We were both encouraged by the friendly staff who made us feel very welcome and told us about all of the facilities. The food was very reasonably priced and tasted great after all that rancid airplane food.

In fact, it was a great relief to Mrs Top Hat that she was no longer eating halal meat. Her face had recoiled at the thought, but when hunger strikes, you have to eat...even if the food resembles some sort of afterbirth. When I'd opened my tin of processed crap, Mrs Top Hat had tut-tutted as I tucked into the leathery slices of meat. "I don't know how you can eat that veal" she said as she tucked into a very odd looking sausage, "It's bad enough eating a pig or a chicken."

"Er, actually, I'm eating chicken." I pointed out.

"The sausages are veal."

She checked in the menu, then spat the throat-cut calf meat out all over her tray. Oh how I laughed.

When we returned to our hotel room, Mrs Top Hat went through my bag in the name of retrieving something of hers. Amazingly, she 'found' my toothbrush.

"It was here all along! I can't believe you, causing a big row over nothing!" she exploded, "You're always doing this! Why can't you just take responsibility for it for once?"

Now, I have to admit, Mrs Top Hat is a good actress. Scarily good. But I wasn't going to fall for that old chestnut. I had emptied that bag before and knew that she had slipped the toothbrush in somehow, the devious little swine. That's my story anyway, and I am sticking to it.

See Mrs Top Hat's fantastical version of events right here, where the lies live!

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