They’re having a competition for jet pack, errr, people. Those who ‘fly’ around the place, almost like Iron Man but without the extreme levels of sophistication that only the truly talented, like the CGI dudes at major film studios, can really achieve. Robert Downey accelerates up past the ozone layer in 4 seconds whereas these guys sort of drift about 12 feet into the air in a more wobbly, drifty kind of manner.

And I want one. Or want to be one. I want a jet-pack. It’s probably all I’ve ever really wanted. Other than (please complete standard and very very long list here of all ‘normal’ things, all ‘mortal’ things). I told Mel that I need a jet-pack. Right, she said, you‘ve always wanted to be Superman. As if that’s a bad thing. But if I was Superman, I informed her, lovingly, I wouldn’t need a FUCKING JET-PACK!!!

But as its too late for me to be born on the planet Krypton and sent as a baby in a mini-baby-type-Lila-size space ship for planet Earth, Iron Man it’ll have to be. And he can only fly with assistance. So I need a jet-pack. Simple.

In case I haven’t mentioned, I love Israel. And its hot here, and we’re on the beach, which is miles long and clean and beautiful. But then Saturday comes and it all goes to shit. Because they let the Israelis out. For the sabbath. It’s ‘their Sunday’. Issa biblical thing, innit. Observe the sabbath to keep it holy. And ‘holy’ in the modern Israeli definition is thus: find a beach, preferably where Andy is enjoying peace and quiet, invade it in your thousands, shout and scream, bring the kids and hit very loud balls with bats for hours on end.

The beach gets busy. The poolside gets busy. It all gets busy. But its still wonderful. Just in a noisier, crowdier way.

Suffering Saturday (I really expect no sympathy whatsoever)

A xxxx