Once again, I slept later than I intended to. My body can't seem to get over the idea that it's five hours later here than it is back home, and I am suffering for it. It's making life awkward because I don't get tired until insane o'clock at night, and then of course when I've been up that late I don't want to be awake that early. Three days have passed me by in a blur of sleep and feeling totally out of it.

It probably doesn't help that I'm used to having a schedule. Even when I'm not out on promotion or tour, I have a precisely plotted out schedule. Even my down time's scheduled. I get up at around eight - or seven if I have a lot to do - and I have breakfast and I work out. Then I'll have business meetings or I'll do some recording, usually some kind of lunch meeting, and then if I don't have more shit to do I might get the afternoon to chill or play some golf or something. I have a diary. Well, I don't have a diary; somebody has a diary on my behalf.

Sometimes I wonder precisely who has control over my schedule - I ought to be the boss of me but I'm not always sure that I am.

It's beautiful out here. I picked Adora randomly from a travel agent's web site because it called it 'an undiscovered paradise.' Obviously the paradise part was good, but mostly it was 'undiscovered' that appealed. I then picked this resort because it was recommended for retirement couples but it still had a beach; Granny and Grandpa don't seem the type to be listening to me sing about whips, shackles and slaves. The sea's not the turquoise it is in Hawaii or my usual haunts, but it's this pleasant deeper shade of blue. I want to say cerulean? The sand is practically white, and it looks like the kind of place where you can sit without being disturbed. I've barely left the apartment to find out - just been observing from the balcony - but I think I could brave it today. The local kids seem to keep to their own patch anyway.

You could ask what the fuck I've been planning to do while playing recluse in this sleepy little town - it's a fair question. It would be great if I had an answer. Reading puts me to sleep; music is going to be kind of a no go for a while, and from what I understand internet access around these parts is slow to the point of extreme irritation. My Blackberry's only got like a single bar of reception, but then from the way it's been beeping and the way my e-mails are stacking up I'm not sure I want to be checking it. The temptation to just switch it off for the duration of my stay gets stronger by the second. Going by the tourist spots is also a huge no go. It's summer vacation time, and I've had considerable success in Europe if I do say so myself. It'll be crawling with the type of folk who'll recognise me and that's not going to be conducive to a peaceful vacation.

Ahh, who the fuck am I kidding? Life re-evaluation is not a peaceful thing wherever the fuck you decide to try it. There's only so long you can spend being a miserable bastard before you figure something has to change, but working out exactly what is really not fucking pretty. You can tell that by the way that even my thoughts on the subject have become littered with profanity - I like to swear and all, but I don't usually sound this bitter. I thought it was my girlfriend, but apparently she wasn't my biggest problem because I got rid of her and I still don't feel a heck of a lot better.

It's just pretty damn terrifying thinking what else it might be, since the rest of my life is made up of my family and my career. If either of those things are the problem… well, that's a whole other problem in itself, seeing as changing them is not an option for me.

Still, this was the point of this trip. The logic is that when you spend time away from your everyday life you can evaluate it a little more objectively. Being a miserable bastard is just not my nature. Call me a cocky son of a bitch, but I'm used to achieving my goals and making a success of my life. I have my trials and tribulations like anybody else, but mostly I manage to turn it to the positive and do that whole 'learn and grow' shit with it. This sounds so hopelessly corny, but I'm a happy guy. I may not be one of those hyper perky people who are always skipping around like the hills are alive with the sound of music but I'm content and it shows.

Being miserable is just so unlike me, and I find it utterly exhausting. It's like my head is filled up with nothing but this maudlin, self pitying crap, and I'm not even sure WHY. Everything just feels like serious effort all the time and it's like none of the things that usually motivate me are working. Severe writer's block has set in, and that never happens to me. There have been dry spells before, but nothing even half this prolonged. Nothing makes me happy. Ostensibly, I can't see anything missing from my life… except the girlfriend I kicked out of it because I thought she might be part of the problem, too high maintenance and draining my energy or something, but that's done nothing to help the overall situation. Still, to be honest I don't miss her as much as I expected to so I'm thinking that still might have been a good call even if my reasoning was screwy.

Of course people notice and they care, they want to help… but it all adds up to more conflicting voices in my head. All their heartfelt advice is useless when the problem remains so elusive. As much as it shames me to say it, after a while the concern just becomes annoying. You get defensive, you get snappy, even the most innocent 'how are you doing' seems loaded with back-handed implications, and generally speaking I have just been a fucking nightmare to deal with. How I've managed to keep that to a minimum in front of paparazzi I have no idea, but there's only so long I can keep doing that before the truth outs.

So I figured what's one more selfish decision? I run away to some quiet corner of the globe, probably giving my mother an aneurysm in the process, and hopefully the peace and quiet gives me enough time and emotional distance to maybe work out what the fuck's wrong with me without need for therapists or pills. I don't trust therapists - HIPAA be damned, I'm sure someone would leak the details. Also, I kind of think they're full of shit.

It's weird. I came for peace and quiet and to be away from all the concerned voices, I came to get away from the well meant but useless advice and I have no desire to pick up my phone and call anyone… but I still kind of wish I had someone to talk to. Going to tourist areas is out and to be honest I always find them tacky anyway. I came here to relax and not do much of anything, yet I want something to do. More than anything, I came here to listen to the voices in my head and all I want to do is shut them out.

Well, nobody ever said my shit had to make sense.

***

Look at me, I ventured outside and everything.

After slathering on about ten tons of factor 60 that's probably not going to stop me burning anyway, I got into my shorts and grabbed a towel and came to sit out on the beach. I brought a token book too, but I doubt it'll get read. Pretty much I'll either fall asleep or maybe have a swim. If only Trace knew, his last and rather bitchy e-mail assumed that I was 'gallivanting' and having the time of my life in some far flung exotic locale. It is far flung and exotic - I'm no gardener but I'm fairly sure I have some pretty impressive orchids in my room - but my activity roster is probably about as exciting as that time Ben broke his leg and was confined to a hospital bed in traction for two weeks.

Take now, for example. I have laid my towel out on the beach. I sat down on it. I managed to get a beer and drink some of it. The sun is shining, it's a beautiful day… and for the last five minutes or so I've been picking up sand and watching it pour through my fingers. Before that I was watching a boat go by against the horizon - somebody needs to stop this crazy party whirlwind or I might get dizzy! The owner's son is apparently away for a couple of days so I can't take that girl's suggestion and ask him if he can loan me a board; shame, the surf looks decent. Also, surfing is a little less pathetic than sitting here pouring sand through your fingers like some easily amused six year old.

Possibly the flaw in coming some place quiet to think is that there's nowhere to get away from your thoughts once you've arrived. Maybe I should have brought Trace or somebody with me, just as a distraction. Maybe this whole thing was a dumb idea. My e-mails all seem to think so.

"Oh bollocks!"

Okay, somebody's got some impressive volume. I look up and I see it's the British girl who directed me to the store (that old lady who owns it loves me - doesn't understand about half of what I say but she understands my money).

It seems kind of mean to laugh, but she's chasing around after a piece of paper and it couldn't be going worse if some Hollywood film maker had scripted it and had a crew member tugging the paper constantly away. Every time she gets close enough to grab the breeze immediately carries it off again, bringing her ever further in my direction. It and she are getting perilously close to the water's edge, and I'm guessing it'll be unreadable if that happens.

"Ahh! Got you, you little bugger!" She yells triumphantly.

Call me stupid (many have), but I still have trouble reconciling that English accent and those very British swear words to her face. She's as tan as anybody else around here, and with her dark colouring she looks like every other resident I've seen around here. Of course this is precisely the second time I've seen her, making a grand total of maybe five minutes if you're generous with the counting, so it's not like I've had much time to reconcile the accent and the appearance.

Apparently I'm laughing louder than I thought; either that or she felt me staring, because she's turned to look at me and has worked out that I think the whole thing's funny. The same female twitch that my cousin makes when she wants to tell me I'm a douche for laughing has appeared on her lips. Guess I hadn't realised precisely how close she was getting to my little spot of beach and that she probably was going to hear me. Hell, she wasn't that far away to begin with, I'm not sure how I missed her; I can see her chair and parasol next to what looks like a big old stack of books - how much reading can one person do in a couple of hours?

"Oh sure. Sit there and laugh at me when you could have helped. I thought you Yanks were supposed to be polite?"

"Oh I'm from Tennessee so I'm a Southerner not a Yankee. Ma'am," I say mockingly.

"Well maybe you should go back there and laugh at other people's poor unsuspecting expense."

The tone is utterly serious, the face is deadpan, but there's a sharp twinkle in her eye that thankfully gives the game away. Clearly this woman missed her calling, because if not for that hint of mischief that would have been a better acting performance than I've seen many a co-star pull off.

"Why'd you think they made me leave?" I riposte.

Now it's her turn to laugh at me. It's a light laugh that seems oddly in fitting with the surroundings - sunny and warm. "I just assumed you were skiving off work."

"Skiving?" I ask quizzically. The tone was clearly joking, but I didn't get the joke.

"You know, pulling a sickie."

"Oh." Well the second one made slightly more sense. My knowledge of British slang is pretty much limited to the following words: bloody, bugger, git, and wanker. That's only because I tend to hear them from the local crews when I tour there. I sincerely hope none of them were directed at me… "Nope, just needed a break. All legitimately taken, promise."

"This is the perk of my job, I get a ton of holidays anyway," she says distractedly as she reads through the paper she picked up with a critical eye.

"Why, what do you do?" It occurs to me as I speak that this is probably the longest conversation I've had with anybody since I left the continental US and it's with a total stranger who's probably just being polite.

"I teach English at the school here," she replies. "Apparently not very well if this piece of paper's anything to go by."

So that would explain the books; she must have brought some grading out with her or something. Maybe she's a good person to ask for what to do around here if she gets so much vacation time. She was definitely helpful before with the store. I've probably done more cooking since I've been here than in the last month back home.

"You set them vacation homework? That's cruel."

"I'm the taskmaster bitch from Hell," she says in a wry tone. "So how about you? And it occurs to me at this point I should have asked for your name before you occupation, but whatever."

It's kind of sad, but the immediate reflex these days when somebody asks me that question is to stare them down and try to work out if the question is sincere. You would not believe how many girls pretend not to know who I am and then, not ten minutes later, they slip up by displaying a massive amount of knowledge that can only have been gleaned from US Weekly or some shit. It's a dead give away that you're lying to me if three minutes after you pretend not to know who I am you're telling me how great you thought FutureSex/LoveSounds was and that you listen to it all the time.

There's nothing in this girl's expression or eyes to tell me that it's a redundant question, so I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. This does seem like a bit of a backwater as far as this island goes, and nobody else has questioned me or so much as taken a second glance at me this far. I'm guessing American music doesn't reach them too quick or something? Either way, I won't look a gift horse in the mouth.

In a split second decision, I take the risk. "Justin Timberlake," I tell her as I hold out a hand.

She shakes it firmly and with a smile. "Addy Elliott."

"Addy… that short for Addison?"

Her face clouds over and her lip twitches. "Not as far as I'm concerned."

"Oh. I never asked."

She tips me a wink. "Smart lad."

Well, it's an inane conversation but it beats sifting sand through your hands. "You lived here long?"

"About eleven years now. You were going to tell me what you do?"

"I'm a banker."

WHOA. Where the fuck did that come from? That cannot have been me who just said that shit.

It sounded like my voice, I mean, after years of singing and giving endless interviews I am naturally pretty familiar with the sound of my own voice, but I cannot have said that. Saying that would make no sense, since I am not a banker. Therefore, I can only conclude that somebody who sounds incredibly like me but who is also invisible must have answered for me. Because why would I say that? It's a dirty lie. The only thing I know about banks is that they bleed me dry on interest for my credit card bills, why the fuck would I say I was a banker? Where would that cracked out decision come from and why would my mouth decide not to inform my brain of it first? See, it can't have been me who said that.

Denial's a fucking river in Egypt.

"Oh. I'd like to pretend that sounds interesting but my mother told me it was wrong to lie. No wonder you needed a vacation."

"Yeah, what can I say?" I squeak uncomfortably. Well, she doesn't seem to suspect that it was a humungous falsehood. Possibly moving the conversation on and never bringing up my occupation ever again is my best course of action here. "Real life is boring. So what do you do for fun around here?"

"We're pretty laid back around here," she shrugs. "We tend to just hang out, sunbathe, swim, surf. If you were a girl I'd say shopping but every guy I know hates shopping, and every now and then we give in to the tourist traps and go to the water parks for the day or something. Though we try to avoid doing that in high season because it's rammed. There's some good hiking around here too."

"Cool. I kind of came here for the peace and quiet and then realised I'd given myself a little too much peace and quiet," I confess. The way she laughs, I suspect I'm not the first person who has done this.

My eyes scoot over her body and take what's probably my first real look at her. Behind the tan, she's got a nice face. Her eyes are a really rich brown, her face is pleasantly rounded and there's a small dimple in her cheek when she smiles. Most of the girls around here seem to live in bikini tops and shorts, and she's not bucking the trend. She's not the tallest person going, if anything she's a little petite, but to my discerning male eye she seems well proportioned. It's really shallow of me to say this, but if she looked like some hose beast I probably wouldn't talk to her. Maybe it's because she's lived here a fair while, but she seems more Adoran than English in personality, too. The locals around here are very friendly and open and she's no exception, but I don't see that so much when I visit England.

Of course in England they know who I am. Why the fuck did I say I was a banker again?

"Well… I don't often say this to the tourists, but you don't seem like a psycho so if you get bored you'd be welcome to come hang out with us," Addy offers with a smile.

"Yeah. I bet you say that to all the guys," I tease.

"If you knew me, you wouldn't say that." If I detected a tone there it can only have been for half a second, because she's already back to light and breezy. "My brother and I live in the villa with the blue shutters about ten minutes' walk down the beach from here," she points out the direction to me, "and we're usually the base of operations so stop by. You'd probably be saving me from some boredom too; it gets annoying being on holiday while everyone else works."

"I'm betting it's more annoying for them working while you chill, so sorry but I got no sympathy."

"And on that note, since you're being mean to me yet again," she pokes her tongue out, "I am going to go get back to the marking that I swore I was going to get done today before the rest of it gets carried off with the wind."

"You know all you had to do was say gone with the wind and I would have had a great Rhett Butler joke opening."

Okay, maybe it's a good thing she's going now because that was a bad, bad joke and she needs to leave before I let out another one. And before I let out more stupid shit along the lines of "I'm not a platinum selling globe trotting musician/actor/entrepreneur, I'm a fucking banker."