So it's over. And I survived. It's rather telling how deeply relieved I am every year when Caribana ends and I find myself still standing, still conscious, not in a hospital bed, not wearing someone else's underpants and not smiling out from Wanted posters on signposts.
I have to admit I haven't a clue who she is, I'm just using her to make a point. And also I admire her obvious good breeding and the fact that she, like a lot of women I admire, does not see the need for the constant tedium of pants.
And speaking of pants, that is not what I wore to Caribana. Because Caribana is all about the sexy, the slinky, the embracing of your inner Rihanna. (Except for the thong flashing. And the nipple piercings. And the drinking of so much Bajan rum you'll butt grind an entire island. In fact, maybe Rihanna was a bad example.)
Anyway, this post has spiralled badly out of control so I'm just going to assume I'm not sober yet after all and end with: "It was fun. Damn good fun. And now I must get back to my prayer book ... " *keels over backwards in dead-dog, legs-upright position*
Editor's Note: Pssst! I know where she hid the GOOD pictures and I will be posting every one of them — just as soon as I make sure she's really out and not just trying to trick me. Last week I went down the basement stairs for that one!