The dirty old man

I can not stand the travelling companion of me and my father. Aaaargh. Really. My father's colleague, a certain 'Peter', is getting on my nerves.

He's the perfect British gentleman in his later years, but despite all his polite mannerisms, I feel extremely 'slimy' every time he opens a door for me, or slides a chair for me, or aids me with my jacket. Why? You should see the way he stares after young ladies... or the way he openly comments on women, in particularly, blondes.

I was going to get a bikini to wear on the beach today, and then decided entirely against that because Mr. Peter got so excited about the idea of it that I was utterly disgusted, and ended up passing an excuse of feeling uncomfortable in swimwear out of respect for Arabic culture... as if there is any arabic culture in Sharm el Sheik, the canary islands of the middle east!

I feel absolutely objectified by this 'dignified' British gentleman. Yuck.

We were discussing my taste in men at one point, and I mentioned that I don't particularly have a liking for very tall western men, as I feel dwarfed by them... and he says "Well, it's a good thing that most other pretty young ladies from Thailand do not feel the same way."

Oh my god. Where have YOU been hanging around? Urgh. Filthy, filthy old man.

Anyhow... on a more positive note...

Things in personal life are beginning to look up. I got a phonecall that I've been waiting for... and I'm feeling more certain about my willingness to fight things out... I hate uncertainty, and there's been enough of that in the past two weeks...

Thanks a lot, my dearest...