I cannot believe it, but I am going to Bali.

I always said I had no interest in going to Bali. I was no longer a carefree backpacker, I have mostly given up partying like it’s 1999 and I have curbed my enthusiasm for riding scooters and buying batik. Yet here I am at the airport, waiting for a flight to Bali.

There are three of us going on this holiday. Jen, Gab, me.

You may remember Disco Jen from such posts as The Entourage. She is mad strong and helped me hoist kettlebells back when we used to do things like hoist kettlebells.

You may remember Gab from such posts as Gab’s issues. She is mad skilled at attracting travel drama, and is almost certainly the cause of Madonna and my cancelled flights to New Zealand.

I offered Gab and Jen at least twelve beaches and islands that we might visit as an alternative, but they were pretty keen on Bali. Jen reminded me that we are adults and we don’t have to stay in hostels and we don’t have to go to party central. We can find a beautiful beach, visit the gorgeous mountains, eat the fabulous food and wind our way through the more peaceful sights of Bali. We can relax, swim, read, eat, shop, visit day spas and just hang out in the sun with one another.

It was a pretty convincing argument.

So I have dusted off my shells and beads, packed my shorts and frocks and am on my way to Bali, with almost zero preparation.

Actually I lie, we’ve done a little bit of prep. Gab and I have filled all of our spare time sewing outfits for around the pool. Jen has sent multiple TikTok Bali tips to the group chat.

And Gab broke her ankle. Because, you know, Gab’s issues.

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