Every day, out by the pool area, Emmathethomsonrep goes hysterical trying to organise the day’s activities. From 11 am to 3 pm it’s basically the same thing, darts, boules, skittles, pool, trivia quiz, things that are competitive but not too energetic. Then, the winner of each game is presented with their prize that same evening on the outdoor stage just before the evening’s so-called entertainment starts. The prize is either a Thomson baseball cap, a Thomson polo shirt or a cheap bottle of champagne and I’ve noticed that Betty seems to be in among the prize winners quite often. Very competitive is Betty.
Today I wandered over to Emmathethomsonrep’s desk in reception and I noticed her mission statement or whatever it was laying on her desk. It said ‘Smile, remember you’re part of someone’s holiday’. Bloody hell. She’s part of my holiday all right, the part that gets right up my nose.
Every morning, down by the pool, there’s an announcement - “The daily papers are now in reception”. People appear as if from nowhere in a mad rush of walking sticks and Zimmer frames to ensure they get there before the last copy of the Daily Mail is sold.
Old people are a bit like spiders really, they spend most of their time in total inactivity but when they decide to move they make you jump when you realise how fast they can scuttle along. Not so bad when they’re moving away from you but it’s when they suddenly stop, turn round and race towards you that the involuntary scream comes out of your mouth.
I’ve taken to keeping a rolled up copy of Saga magazine by the side of the sun bed just in case.
Some old dear’s walking around with a T shirt on which it says ‘Falmer Babe. Beach Champion’. I took one look and couldn’t stop laughing. Dear oh dear.
It’s an early dinner tonight so we have time to go round the town in one of those Dotto train things that you tend to see at many holiday resorts. It takes about an hour for the round trip. As we finished dinner I noticed that instead of just Placido standing at the entrance saying goodnight to everybody he was accompanied by the head chef. I said to no one in particular, “Oh we’ll have to give the chef our compliments as we go out tonight.”
As we walked out Dan said, “Nice hat.”
We just managed to catch the train/bus thing and once you’ve bought a ticket you can hop on and off anywhere you like for the duration of that day. We decided we’d get off at the far end of the town and pick it up again one hour later to return back to the hotel. This was the first time we’d been to the far end of town and we seemed to have inadvertently blundered into the German quarter. A man in gold rimless spectacles, brown leather lederhosen and knees to match suddenly jumped in the air and slapping each thigh, foot and hand three times before landing shouted out, “Vot you vishing Tommy? Eine kleine fraulein mit der big boobies?”
What?
Look. I’m sorry but if you want politically correct stuff you’ll have to read another diary. This is the place for good old national stereotyping and what’s wrong with that eh?
Turning away from Fritz I saw a hand written fly bill advertising Leapy Lee as some pub’s ‘live’ nightly entertainment. “Leapy Lee?” I said to Pauline, “He’s dead isn’t he? I’m sure he’s dead. He’s singing Little Arrows in the big stadium in the sky isn’t he? Perhaps it’s one of these tribute artists but hang on, they don’t use the real name do they? If he was a tribute artist he’d call himself Jumping Jack or Hoppy Harry wouldn’t he? But if he did, nobody would know who he was supposed to be would they?” Dear oh dear I was getting nowhere with this. But do you know what? When I got home I looked him up on the internet and Leapy Lee is indeed alive and well and living and working in Majorca.
So that’s all right then.
Before we got the bus back I was talking to a girl in a bar and happened to tell her that I was writing a series of holiday diaries which eventually I hoped to turn into a book of some sorts. She said, “This tall girl over here must read your book some time.”
I just turned and left in disgust and embarrassment.
Never have I heard such a string of four letter words on the lips of a lady.
No comments:
Post a Comment