Almost three years ago John told me that the future was full of outrageous potential (he wrote that in his wedding vows –ahhhhhh it’s like a Nicholas Spark’s movie). I believed him. But I never knew he meant this outrageous.

I’m not sure even he envisaged a two book deal from Simon & Schuster.

Thank you for the vibes people. It paid off. My book, Hunting Lila, is going to be published. And the sequel too.

I guess there’s a lesson here – never stop believing in outrageous potential. And never give up on the story you want to write.

Ok. Enough of the Eckhart Tolle-ising. I’m going to make myself puke.

I’ve had about 4 hours sleep in 72 hours. The water ratio in my body is about 50% vodka. And a small child is trying to show me the wand she has just made.

Just one more thing though.

Thank you John and Alula for the adventure (and the three weeks alone on a beach in Goa to just write – your wand is really good Lula), thank you Vic for being the best friend and best reader a girl could hope for, thank you Nic – I love you and miss you quite a large amount. Thank you Tom for your support and being my big brother, thank you Sara for that first phone call letting me know I could write. Thank you Tara – Goan roomie and American editor – I owe you for explaining the difference between a vest and a tank top (and a few other things like that). Thank you all my blog readers – the kindness of strangers is quite an amazing thing. Thank you Amanda, agent extraordinaire, for loving Lila and Alex as much as I do (he is pretty damn hot – are we happy to share him?). Thank you Susan Miller – you are so on the money (shuttup Andrew).

Oh and finally thanks to all my Ubud buddies for celebrating with me. Same again tonight yeah?

(She weeps and clutches Oscar to her chest. Exit stage left).

The Balinese like to celebrate – no, not in the same way as John – by impersonating leather clad, long-haired rock stars – but by preparing ornate offerings of coconut, flowers, incense and rice, cooking up feasts and then spending up to three days at the temple before heading on down for a cock fight. They have these ceremonies frequently. As in pretty much every week. They have a ceremony on the full moon and at the new moon and then as far as I can tell, every other day too. Poor cocks.

To claim the Balinese are spiritual is like saying that the Dalai Lama is some kind of peacenik. Their religion is based on a mix of Hinduism, Buddhism and Animism.  Houses are built in such a way as to confuse evil spirits (who can’t turn corners), with fishponds to absorb any evil spirits that happen to make it past the corner. Offerings are made every morning outside every house (even our heathen one), laid out by beautiful sarong-clad women. These offerings are made at dawn following the belief that no one in the house can eat until the spirits have.

There are three tenants at the heart of the Balinese belief system– respect and love for God, respect and love for humankind and respect and love for the earth. If any of these are out of harmony then chaos reigns.

Made (said Maday not as in here’s one I made earlier), our neighbour, explains that all Balinese try to live with these three tenants guiding them. If only the rest of the world did, John remarks. I feel humbled. Most of the time I barely hit one out of three. Actually most of the time I don’t even get one.

Made takes us to the temple in his house’s compound. It is a big ceremony day – well averagely big – there are maybe 60 people, not all 160 families who live in our village. The offerings are only stacked three high.  I am feeling lucky that I bought all those sarongs (to give as gifts of course, there was no intention of making them into dresses you understand) because we are now wearing them as they were intended to be worn. As sarongs. Not as cute little Mac Jacobs style dresses.  John is next to me looking like David Beckham circa 1999 and I am shuffling along like a geisha (not sure how you tie these things).

An old lady (turns out she’s the priest) flicks some water over me and slaps some rice on our foreheads. Lula starts eating it (not off my head, off the offering) but that is apparently what you’re meant to do.  Made explains that the ceremony is about giving thanks for all that we have. We are kneeling on the wet ground and I can’t help but feel suddenly overpowered by how apt it is that we are here, amongst our new neighbours, invited into their home, into the heart of their community to offer thanks. There is so much to be thankful for – the fact we are here, that we have made new friends in such a wonderful, peaceful and beautiful place, that Lula is happy and healthy, that I have a nanny who gives massage, that I have discovered ecstatic dance and and how good John is at pretending to be Bon Jovi.

When we get home Lula starts wondering around the house gathering up petals and leaves. She disappears for five minutes, then comes back and takes John by the hand and points out all the little offerings she has made – several dozen in every corner.

‘They are offerings to say thank you’ she says, ‘for ice cream and chocolate. You mustn’t ever move them ever.’

If David Lynch and Tim Burton got together and decided to open a nightclub and then Lars Von Trier vomited in it, this would be it. Inside it is all filthy black walls, mirrors and chrome seating. It’s kind of like the Jazz Cafe in Camden. That simile only stretches so far. Not so many famous musicians play here. None infact. I only mean by the comparison that it’s the sort of place that if you saw it in daylight would have you running screaming for the exit. It is a place meant only for darkness and drunkness.

Our friend Megan, who introduced me to ecstatic dance has brought us here and is now introducing the whole club to erotic dance. I’m not involved in this one. Ecstatic is my limit. Interestingly the erotic produces the ecstatic in the huddle of Balinese men salivating at the side of the dancefloor. Who’d have thought it?

On stage there is a band of 6 men. They are playing so earnestly that there is no room for piss taking, despite the fact their choice of song is limited to Earth Wind and Fire and Ricky Martin Hits. Five are Balinese, average height 5’5. The sixth man on the stage is my husband. He is towering over the others. And he is singing Bon Jovi. I can see his every move through the gaps in my fingers. And yes I did just see him punch the air.

I take stock. There are two erotically dancing girls (dancing together), a pile of salivating local men and my husband singing (and punching the air). Give him his due he can sing. And he appreciates irony.

I look around for the one-armed man.

In 1997 I spent a week on Gili Meno – a tiny dot of paradise resting in the Lombok Strait – geek fact; the Lombok Strait is 3km deep, a breeding ground for Tiger sharks and is full of treacherous currents. Lots of Divers go drifting out into it and have to rely on the Bali – Lombok Ferry to pick them up before they hit the ocean / get eaten by a shark / drown. You like those odds?)

Anyway 13 years ago I took a Chinese floating tin pot over this strait to get to Meno. I remember that journey because I needed the loo more than I have ever needed anything in my entire life before or since. And I couldn’t go for four hours because the loo on the ship was knee deep in piss and when I stood horror struck before the unlit cubicle, urine washing around me, a cockroach the size of a kitten ran over my foot. So I spent four hours on a deck as hot as a frying pan wondering how I could position myself over the railing to pee without falling into the 3km depths below and wishing not for the first time (definitely not the last) that I had a penis.

Anyway this is why 13 years later I insisted on taking the fast boat to Gili. The one that costs $60 return as opposed to $10. The one that has a toilet and air-conditioning and comfy seats and even life jackets. Now safely deposited on the other side of that fast boat journey on an island almost unrecognisable from the tropical paradise it once was – layered now with concrete and rammed with huts – I can tell you for a fact that I shall be taking the slow boat back to Bali.

Every vital organ in my body has been repositioned – my stomach now sits where my left lung was. Left lung somewhere near where my bladder used to be. I am bruised, dazed and my right hand has cramp. John’s has several hairline fractures. At some point on the fast boat journey I realised that if Lula needed a wee or to be sick she was just going to have to do it right where she was, wedged tightly between us, because I couldn’t twist my head away from the window and the boiling, vertical horizon for even so much as a nanosecond to aim her in John’s direction. Luckily the whole experience seemed to be too much for Lula. She fell silent and then passed out – no puking or peeing.

The boat was smashing into the waves so hard my sunglasses actually broke. Whilst I was wearing them. Think about that.

At one point an Irish girl screamed out ‘Fucking Bloody Fucking Hell Jesus Man,’ at the captain.

About half way in I was contemplating a leap over the side and a 3km freedive. But I couldn’t stand. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t even scream at the captain like the Irish girl had. My lips were clamped shut to stop the chocolate peanut butter oreo cookies they’d given out as an in cruise snack from reappearing down my front.

So the options are such – we could drift dive back to Bali. We could take the Chinese kettle boat or we could just stay here forever. Tempting as that is – there’s no hot water and Lula has collected every shell on the beach already – so it looks like we’re taking the slow boat.

The less you have to do, the less you do. I am dangling on the laziness precipice and struggling to pull myself back into the land of the active and purposeful. I’m not lazy in the sense of sitting in front of the tv eating cheatos all day  – I do eat the cheatos but the tv only shows Indonesian soaps so that’s a no go.

And I am out a lot – sampling my way through Ubud’s 1001 culinary establishments. But in terms of the little things I’m just lazy. I fully admit it.

6pm came around again. My inner dialogue went like this:

Urgh, guess I’d better make some dinner for lula. Maybe I should just order a pizza – what’s the point she won’t eat it – what’s in the fridge? Ok, nothing. What happened to the potatoes? Did kadek use them already? Maybe she took them for her pig. Omelette? Can three year olds get cholesterol problems? No. No more eggs. What’s in the cupboard? Ok. Rice noodles. That’ll do. Maybe with some oil. We don’t have oil. Huh. Ew it’s filthy up here. Can a mouse climb this high? Is this mouse poo? Oooh what’s this? Tuna. Ok rice noodles and tuna it is. Maybe with sweetcorn? No that’s totally gross. Is that totally gross? Would that just be like tuna sweetcorn pasta? Oh let’s just forget the sweetcorn because it’s two cans to open. Crap where’s the can opener? Oh here it is. Damn this thing who the hell thought to design a can opener like this? Is it even a can opener? Hmmmm. Oh I give up. Maybe John can figure it out. Why is he banging it like that? Clearly that’s not going to work. Ok I’ll take it to Jay. Maybe he can figure out how to use it. No it’s not a pair of scissors – gees.  Right finally. One can of tuna….hmmm, this doesn’t look so appetising. Maybe if I spludge it up a bit, mix it in. No. Doesn’t taste so good. Why am I so rubbish at this? I used to be able to cook. How about salt? Salt could work. Is salt bad for three year olds? All those organic baby foods say No Salt. But how do they make it taste good? This tastes bad. It requires salt. I can’t put chilli in it. Huh. That’s going to have to do. It’s not so bad. yes it is. It’s really bad. but maybe they won’t notice.

I carry the wok thing around to Natasha’s where the children are watching A Bug’s Life. Natasha stares at the gloopy gelatinous mess of rice noodles decorated with lumps of tuna.

‘Here, let me cut up some baguette to go with that,’ she says, ‘Boys, dinner time, Sarah’s made lovely noodles with Tuna. And here’s the bread – see, it’s just like a restaurant.’

She peers over my shoulder as I try to ladle the noodles into separate bowls but this is proving difficult because they’re stuck together like a rasta dread.

‘A third world restaurant,’ she mutters. We giggle.

‘Oh god, I don’t know why I even bother any more,’ I say. ‘I’m such a rubbish mother. I can’t even cook.’

We plonk three bowls in front of the kids. Lula manages 3 slices of baguette and two mouthfuls of noodles. The boys don’t even make it to the table.