One of my friends, Simon, came round for dinner the other night.
Simon is hysterical. He tells a story and everyone is completely enraptured for hours.
We've heard this story three times, and yet, it seems to get funnier everytime.
I cannot recount it, simply because you need to hear him. But what makes for an excellent story is the fact that he lived on the island of Casa Iguana for three months. (Off the coast of Nicaragua and Colombia). During that time, he spent hours at an establishment called "Da Happy Hut" where rum was 30c a glass, where jungle storms rained down on him as frequently as cocaine-smugglers bullets, where he'd do night dives in caves with sharks and crazy Australians, where he lived on pineapples and leaves and generally forgot that all else existed in the world. He made a living by doing the guests laundry at the resort there. There was one path. The rest was jungle. It was like he was in Survivor, but he actually enjoyed it. Also, if somebody on the island was pissing everybody off - I shit you not - they'd get voted out and kicked off the island. You gotta love tribal warfare.
Now as I sit and contemplate the exciting world of condiments, spreads and sauces - I am thinking that I really, really, really want to go to Casa Iguana.