A Bachelorette Pad By Any Other Name...

Would still be the potential party central of Mendoza. However, let us not forget that your humble blogger lives there, and therefore, this ideal is nul and void before it has even had a chance to manifest itself.

But let's put reality on hold for a little while and take a brief tour of my new home. First, it is cream. The sofa is cream. The chairs are cream. The walls are cream. Whilst it is bright and spacious, it is by anyone's judgement absolutely bare. We need pictures, and plants, and an emergency visit from Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen. And we need them fast.

Thankfully, this is entirely outweighed by the luxury items that are included - cable tv, wireless internet and most importantly of all - a microwave and washing machine. The notion of being in a third world country only really hits you when you are washing your clothes in a remnant from the dark ages. This was, among any number of others, one of the major downfalls of The Cave; when you spend half an hour washing one pair of jeans at a time, in a spin machine full of cold water, only to pull them out to discover that the white soap has stuck to the outside of the black jeans and that everything smells of rust. Rust, despite the glaringly obviously fact that the "machine", and I use that term oh-so-very loosely, is made of plastic.

But, despite all this, it's all about the location. We are two blocks from Plaza Independencia, three blocks from the largest supermarket in town, and all of thirty feet away from the apartment of the Frenchman. Clearly, the latter could all end in tears and awkwardness. But for now, it is joyful.

Your humble blogger does not want to get into the habit of discussing the affayre, but suffice it to say that she is no longer spending every night watching The Young Ones ("I'll have to sit in the wickety chair") on her laptop and eating nothing but BBQ Pringles.. OK, the BBQ Pringles are still kicking around. But you know what they say - once they pop... you get fat. Or maybe that's the beer.

Beer?! I hear you cry. Beer, vodka, wine, Martini... three nights of consecutive partying and continuous mixing of ales, spirits and endless, but endless, cigarettes. Clearly the idea of giving up smoking has been washed away by the constant stream of alcohol. The typically smoking Frenchies are also no help.

But now, I must unpack. Day Four of the Bachelorette Pad has seen food and bathmats, but the floor remains hidden by bags, suitcases and dirty clothes.. You can take the girl out of The Cave but you can't take the Cavegirl out of... Ah.