A Short Story, set in Bali

I'm a loser. Take this however you want, but I mean it in the literal sense of the word - someone who loses things. I am, in fact, a world class loser. I must lose my car keys at least once a week and I've lost count of the number of times my wallet has gone missing. This would almost be something to be proud of if it wasn't coupled with the unfortunate truth that I am also rubbish at finding lost items.

Standing beside the luggage carousel in Denpasar airport I had that not unusual sinking feeling that something was missing. I checked my pockets; passport, wallet and phone were all present. It was only when I looked up again and noticed that Steve and I were stood virtually alone in baggage claims that I realised what it was. We didn't have any bags.

A quick check with the 'Lost and Found' department confirmed our fears that our luggage hadn't actually been transferred to the new flight, as Tiger Air had promised, but was, in all likelihood, sat in Singapore airport somewhere. Wonderful.

Not to worry, we thought, this isn't the first time luggage hasn't made a connecting flight - in all probability it would turn up tomorrow and that would be fine.

We'd arrived in Bali late on a Friday evening and were soon on our way to meet an old friend of Steve's. Sally had wanted Steve to come and visit her for years and so being in the general area gave us a great excuse to pop over to Bali and for me to return to a country I had been to only twelve months ago.

My brief visit last February had somewhat prepared me for the mayhem that was to greet us in Bali's party town of Kuta, but being bleary eyed from another long flight meant that it was still a shock to the system when our taxi dropped us off. The familiar sound of mopeds was drowned out momentarily by Sally's scream as she saw Steve for the first time! Soon we were inside meeting some of her friends, who, in stark contrast to our zombie like states, were very 'awake'. The large majority of the small crowd seemed to be American, who were loud and happy enough to ignore the fact I was barely able to stay awake long enough to hold a coherent conversation. One particularly agile friend greeted Steve by putting her foot on his shoulder. Whilst being fairly impressed by this show of suppleness, I hoped that this was not a traditional local greeting, otherwise it would not be long before I ended up in the local A&E.

Despite our tiredness, Steve and I accompanied the rest of the guys as they moved on to other establishments and eventually we found ourselves in a place known as the Sky Garden. With a uncovered dance floor and seats on the fifth floor it offered a great view of the madness below. Unfortunately, it was at this point I lost something else - Steve.

After conducting a mini search of the top floor I decided that it would be more sensible to sit still and wait for him to find me, which I did. For an hour. Finally, as I was sat on a comfy sofa drifting towards dream world I noticed the tall and slightly annoyed figure of my cousin waking towards me. It turns out he isn't too good at finding things either!

A short taxi ride later and we arrived at our home for the next few weeks - Sally's house - and promptly collapsed into a deep sleep.

The next morning we were introduced to Sally's four-year-old son Ochie, who, despite being turfed out of his comfortable double bed by two strangers, seemed relatively pleased to meet us. It was great to have a shower and get out of the clothes that we had been wearing since we'd left Vietnam, three days previous. The problem was that we still had no clean clothes to change into! It was then that Sally produced some of the most ghastly garments you are ever likely to see in your life. Two short sleeved shirts, a pair of denim shorts and particularly special pair of Union Jack shorts.

We needed to be brave - beggars can't be chosers. We were either going to be trend setters, unafraid to break away from the norm and try edgy new styles that fashion designers would be setting the catwalks on fire with in Paris next year... or we would look like complete muppets. I'll let you be the judge...

Imagine wearing that. It isn't a fancy dress party, that's how Steve and, more to the point, myself, were dressed as we rode through Bali's busy streets on our way to the beach. If going out in public wasn't bad enough, Sally had arranged to meet up with a couple of friends at the beach.

The beautiful golden sands and warm waters briefly distracted me from my clashing outfit, but I was soon brought back to reality by the sound of laughter. Not my own, but that em imaging from a small group of people a hundred yards up the beach. I looked around wondering what the source of their hilarity was, before realising it was me. It was Sally who was stood amongst her friends whilst they gazed at me with a mixture awe and pity. But mainly pity.

Although I'd met Sally's friends, Meredith and Amanda, briefly the previous evening - I think I had been dressed slightly more conservatively and it was now that I was making a bigger impression. In fact my shorts were so impressive that when another of Sally's friends, Grishka, turned up and couldn't find us, he was promptly asked if he was looking for the 'guy with the shorts'!

I had a feeling I wouldn't live this down for a while!

Despite them destroying any self respect I had left by saluting the shorts every time they saw me, we decided to spend the majority of our weekend with Meredith, Amanda and Grishka. Steve and I enjoyed splashing around in the warm water with Ochie - and Meredith's daughter, Scarlet - whilst Sally enjoyed the chance to splash unsuspecting locals by belly flopping in the water next to them.

In the evenings we ate together and I discovered that Amanda was struggling with an addiction to Balsamic vinegar and that Grishka was a Cornish bay from just over the wrong side of the border near Newquay. It turns out that we had some mutual friends.

Even though our luggage had still not arrived by the Sunday - two days after we'd landed in Bali - we were definitely beginning to embrace the island lifestyle. Talking late in to the night and then lying on a beach the next day. I could certainly get used to this. Even in those shorts.