We are writing to you now from Florianopolis in the pouring rain, having eaten what we can only assume was placenta for lunch and pot noodle for breakfast, missing the buffet by no more than 4 minutes this morning. Things are getting desperate. Calling the mothers, we miss you. The beginning of our trip was admittedly filled with greater jollity. Our first day we spent on the beach, basking in the sun and laughing at Rosie spluttering in the shallows. It was also the first time Rose and I tried to surf, which was about as successful as cooking this afternoon. Having got ourselves wedged in the bus turn-ball with our boards, almost decapitating an array of innocent bus goers and spraying sand in the bus drivers' eyes, Baps and I scrambled off apologetically and hit the waves. First wave approaches, Occy is poised for the attack. The board slips straight from under my arse and whacks me in the face; the wrist strap and adjoining rope snap. Everyone watching. The shame. We further this embarrassment by later singing loudly to the Chicago soundtrack and attempting to emulate Robbie Williams and Nicole Kidmans "Something Stupid." In hindsight, not the best way to make friends. We treat ourselves to an acai yoghurt, unavailable in Britain and SO GOOD, and supposedly aid weight loss. Evidence is pretty thin on the ground thus far. That night, after insisting that the supermarket Bolognaise sauce contained meat and ending up - well, wrong- and dining on rice, egg and tomato sauce; Rosie and I have our first taster of Samba that evening. And I have never laughed so much in my entire life. Full of slinky Spaniards and prowling Portugese, we discover that even insisting that we are lesbians does little to dissuade the locals: " May I have your girlfriend for this dance." Thanks, but no thanks. Put it this way, you know if your partner has eaten cabbage for supper.