Iceland, I love you

It doesn't seem all that long ago that Bjarni and I didn't bring books or magazines onto aeroplanes because we knew we'd be busy snogging for the whole journey. Not so anymore, as Bjarni spent the entire flight buried in his book, looking up only once to ponder why, if there is economy class and business class, nobody has invented "porn class" yet. Um... whatever that is?

We're back in Iceland for ten days, which has been top secret as I was the surprise guest at my old company's annual party. Now, the trouble with an advertising agency promising a surprise guest is that people's imaginations tend to run away with them, and before you know it they're hoping for somebody really special, like Hemmi Gunn, for example — the Icelandic Bruce Forsyth.

Still, nobody looked too disappointed to see it was me, and we had a fantastic night eating and drinking too much in a remote hotel in a beautiful fjörd just north of Reykjavík. I got very emotional very quickly at seeing all my peeps again — I don't think I'd realised how much I miss them. Oh dear... I think I may even have "given a speech".

Usually at work parties I end up getting naked way too early, or I'm the one telling Oscar from marketing that I want his baby — or sometimes I might even get drunk or something like that. So this time, although I technically don't work there anymore, I was trying to be on my best behaviour, and even managed to keep my swimsuit on in the hot-tub.

No need to have been so prudish, it turns out, as nothing — but nothing — could come close to taking out your glass eye, rolling it under the foreskin of your penis, and entertaining your colleagues with your "one eyed snake".

Iceland, I love you.