Emma was very sick about 6 am this morning. Something’s upset her quite badly. I said I wouldn’t be surprised if she was worried that we might drag her along to watch Viva again but Pauline said don’t be stupid. In the end Pauline made a trip to the chemist to get some medicine for her and came back with 14 day’s supply of stuff that the pharmacist insisted she have. Not a good day for Emma, she’s completely out of action, just sleeping in between bouts of being sick.
We’ve booked half board which means we don’t have to eat in the restaurant we passed today called “The Pou-Pou Restaurant”.
Today, one of Emmathethomsonrep’s activities is a ‘Paella and Sangria Demonstration’. It’s taking place by the pool around midday so I think it’s worth a try in case we get a free glass of sangria. It turns out to be the hotel chef with a whacking great pan and a big stick, throwing in the ingredients while Emmathethomsonrep shouts out what he’s doing. A bit like stating the obvious really.
“First he lights the grill. In goes the pork. Now the chicken. Now he’s putting in calamares….” And so it went on. The chef stirred it all up with his big stick and then they flogged it off to us for 3 euros a plate with a glass of sangria thrown in. Very good it was too.
Now one of the rules of the hotel is ‘no food or drink to be taken out of the restaurant’ but Pauline can’t see why we shouldn’t have some of their rolls, ham and cheese for our lunch every day instead of buying something out. So every morning at breakfast we go into our smuggling routine. While I distract the waitresses by hitting the nearest foreigner on the nose while singing Land of Hope and Glory, Dan shouts out the prearranged code words “Scramble Scramble”. This is the signal for Emma to rush up to Placido Domingo and point out of the window saying, “Look, isn’t that a naked lady out there?” and for Pauline to take advantage of our diversionary tactics by shovelling the rolls, ham, cheese, hard boiled eggs, fruit juice and trays of hot baked beans, sausages, fried eggs and grilled tomatoes into her well positioned beach bag lying open on her lap.
Pauline then leaves the dining room first, followed by Dan and Emma with me bringing up the rear with the coffee machine on my back, devilishly concealed by a crisp, clean tablecloth draped across my shoulders.
Works every time.
Today at breakfast I took my cup to the coffee machine, placed it under the nozzle and was about to press it when Placido Domingo came rushing over shouting, “No senor, no no!” It was then that I noticed the grill for channelling the unused coffee away was blocked and coffee was overflowing the grill tray and running down the front of the cabinet below the machine. The floor was a pool of coffee and I hadn’t even noticed until Placido had shouted at me.
“Oh sorry,” I said for some reason. As I said this I thought, “Oh my God he’s going to think I did this and I’m apologising for doing it. Why am I so polite?”
But all he said was, “Sorry? Why you say sorry? You no have to say sorry.”
“Oh, OK,” I said, “Sorry.”
He said, “Sorry? Why you say sorry? You no have to say sorry.”
I said, “Oh right, OK, sorry.”
He said, “Sorry? Why you say sorry? You no have to say sorry.”
“No,” I said, “Sorry, damn.”
He said, “Sorry? Why you say sorry? You no have to say sorry.”
I said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say sorry that time.”
He said, “Sorry? Why you say sorry? You no have to say sorry.”
Pauline had to come and drag me away and out of the dining room at midday……………
It’s the manager’s ‘Cocktail Party’ at noon today. One of the reps said it was an opportunity to have a free glass of sangria and meet the hotel and Thomson staff. That put me off right away.
Anyway I decided to make an effort. I leapt from the shower at 11.30, put on clean underwear, my dress trousers carefully creased, dress shirt, stiff collar, black bow tie, black silk socks, patent leather pumps with silk bows on top, dinner jacket, white silk scarf, black overcoat and top hat.
Then I took them all off, got a towel and dried myself.
As we entered the room for the party I caught sight of the manager at the far end of the room alternately quaffing champagne and nibbling the ear of Emmathethomsonrep. I made a beeline for them immediately.
“Have you met Lord Rutherford?” the manager said to me.
“No,” I said, “is he here?”
“No,” he said, “but that chap over there in the corner is his brother T’otherford.”
The manager then went on to tell me about a quaint local custom about to start tomorrow. Every day one of the waiters walks round the hotel bounds at 3 am in the morning beating a drum and screaming.
“Oh, which one?” I asked him.
“I don’t know,” the manager said, “I’d give half my pension to find out.”
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