I write to you, dear reader, from Fremont Street in Las Vegas, Nevada. Here at my hotel – the Golden Gate Hotel and Casino – I wait out the extreme midday heat, letting my somewhat brackish lunch digest. The room is decent; the bathroom is functional. Smoking is allowed so
Women’s travel: Ok, we hate to be the ones to tell you, but going out-of-town for a bachelorette break can never be cheap cheap. There’s transport and accommodation to book. There are L-plates/wacky wedding veils to be bought (and, regretfully, worn). There are shots to be drunk. Many shots.
When I was in Las Vegas last weekend, the thing I could not stop obsessing over, apart from the buffets and 99-cent margaritas, was alllll the breast implants. It was like a breast implant convention. And I guess most of America is used to this, but I was somewhat alarmed.
Some people can go ahead and buy new pants when they need them. In my sad budget, I have to actually put money aside for a purchase of this magnitude, in minuscule, bi-weekly increments. Weeks later, when I have almost amassed enough, I invariably fuck it all up by deciding,