No man is an island...

But shitnuts, I wish I was sometimes. It helps that I live alone so I can go home and not have to talk to anyone. This week has been exceptionally crazy. Working late. Full-focus mode at work. Not enough hours in the day. Playing Creative Director-Creative Director. Did I really sign up for this? The only thing that's holding me together is the long weekend ahead and getting away to Yzerfontein.

So when I can't curl up in the fetal position on the studio floor. (Yes, I've done this and it makes me feel better.) I go to my happy place. My island.

It's a tropical island (where mozzis and Dengue Fever don't feature). I live there in a little one bedroomed wooden hut. I have my books, my music, my surfboard, my kitty and a bicycle. I'm the only Western Girl on the island and I work in a local plastic-chair restaurant, can speak a smattering of the language and know all the locals. They love me so much, they've given me a pet name in the local language. I eat mostly peanut butter sandwiches - Black Cat crunchy, which gets sent to me by my family. And I have a basket on my bicycle so that I can carry watermelons home for dessert.

There's never any drama on my island. Except when there's a huge tropical thunderstorm and the electricity goes down for a couple of days and we laugh over candle-lit dinners of noodles and tofu. And I don't really have to worry about anything except when the postman comes and the stock in the restaurant that I work in.

Ah, life is good on my island. All naysayers will be ignored. Of course. And visitors welcomed!