When Joel and I were married, we couldn’t take a honeymoon – I was still breastfeeding our five-month-old at the time. We had one night, so we decided to blow a honeymoon’s worth of cash on hiring the best hotel room available in Melbourne for that night. It was the “Victorian Suite” at the Windsor Hotel, and it was bigger than our house. We had to laugh at ourselves when we saw the three bedrooms, dining table to seat 20 people, antiques and artworks. Also the next morning when we realised Joel hadn’t brought any fresh clothes and would have to wear his wedding suit to breakfast.
Having got pregnant with Rufus, oh, three weeks into our relationship has meant that our holidays together have been very limited. I.e., I can name them all – a weekend in Merrijig, another in Sydney, another in Lorne, and our ridiculously opulent “honeymoon night”. When you put it that way, our policy of blowing stacks of cash on expensive short trips when the chance arises isn’t quite as arrogant as it otherwise seems.
Our weekend in Macau for my 30th birthdya was even more than I’d hoped for. We stayed in the Pousada De Sao Tiago, which is a hotel in a fort built in 1629. Imagine the history buff inside me weeping with joy to walk in and see the original stone stairs leading to our suite…
..which was stupendously luxurious, with Portuguese linen, a rainshower bigger than the wheel of a car, and so many high-end toiletries I could barely carry my bag down the stairs after I’d knicked them all. Also, a mother-of-pearl bathroom that even made the bidet look classy. And a very good-looking husband.
Afterwards, we had one of the best dinners of our life at the hotel restaurant. There was an international fireworks competition that night in Macau, so the restaurant had a special “Fireworks” tasting menu on offer. The fireworks turned out to be shit but the food was explosively good. Here is Joel dying on the grass outside the hotel after consuming the whole 12th plate of the meal, which was pretty much half a pig.
With the encouragement of the advertising literature I’d read online and on the ferry on the way over to Macau, my expectation for the fireworks was soaring. I envisioned a blinding pyrotechnic display to herald in my birthday metaphorically. Instead there were six minutes of flaccid poppers fizzling 5m in the air.
Sit tight for
further self-fellation the next day…