Jet Skis. Fun? Or just plain dangerous?
So, there I was. Bikini clad and signing a form (which was written in French, I can't read French.. Shit). What am I signing for? Insurance? Consent? Advanced Death Certificate? Who knew.
Not a huge fan of baring my pale body to the world, but for some reason (mainly peer pressure), I was stood on a sandy beach with St Tropez across the water, in my mismatched bikini, being fitted for a life jacket. It's all well as good calling it a life jacket, but it's not gonna save me from breaking a sodding arm, or snapping my neck when I am thrown violently from my jet ski. But, whatever.
Can't come across as being a complete girl.
This will be fun.
This will be fun.
This will be fun.
Anyway, as I'm stood there, trying to block the possible imminent death from my mind, wondering which yacht is P Diddy's - I'm being hurried into the sea by the instructor. He asks me if I'm ok. Yes, I'm ok. (No, i'm definitely NOT ok..).
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