The two bloody gay perverts twinkled at me this morning despite the fact that I strolled into breakfast with a manly stride shouting in a loud deep voice to everyone I passed, “Hello, how are you? I’m married with one daughter and I’ve been heterosexual all my life and will be until I die.”
That should do the trick. Startled a few guests though.
I’ve just heard that Tim Henman is out of Wimbledon already. I think he was playing an armless, blind, one-legged dwarf. A shame really as Timbo had been practising all year for this occasion. Not his tennis obviously but that pathetic little victory fist clench that looks like he’s trying to get rid of a touch of pins and needles in his arm. Only that morning he’d been practising in front of his hotel mirror and said to his wife, “You know, I really believe this year’s my year. Look at this – fist clench, fist unclench, fist clench, fist unclench – I can do twenty of these in a row now without feeling the least bit tired.”
His wife looked up from her book ‘How To Spot The Lesbian Players Before They Spot You’ and said, “The sooner you pull your bloody socks up and get a proper job, the sooner we’ll see the end of all those hordes of middle-aged women wrapped in Union Jack flags, hats and dresses, screaming girlishly at every point you don’t manage to concede and dramatically over play-acting at tragedy as if they’ve just received news that their entire family has been massacred whenever you swipe and miss.”
But it was no use. Timbo hadn’t heard a word. He was in another world of his own, standing bent over in his Bruce Forsyth pose muttering to himself, “Fist clench, elbow bend, fist unclench. Other hand, fist clench, ooh that hurt, fist unclench…..I think I’ve got it. By George I think I’ve got it……”
Today we’re all going to Tarragona, a large town along the coast with major shopping attractions for Emma and her mates, a cathedral for Pauline and…er…not sure what for me. We boarded the bus near the hotel and arrived at the bus station in Tarragona around noon. The bus station appeared to be in the middle of nowhere so as we got off Pauline asked the bus driver which way the cathedral and city centre was, he waved vaguely in one particular direction which we attempted to follow once outside the bus station but as usual we hadn’t a clue really where we were heading – well I didn’t – don’t know about everyone else.
Although we had a map, the bus station wasn’t marked on it so until we could find a road name we recognised on the map we were stymied. We passed commercial premises, shops, bars and banks but weren’t really getting anywhere. The cathedral was nowhere to be seen. Pauline got the map out again, tried to see where we were but gave up and asked a passing old Spanish gentlemen. He turned the map upside down and pointed and gestured first to the map and then to the surrounding area for a good few minutes, pausing and looking into Pauline’s eyes for a few seconds to see if she understood and then resuming his pointing and gesturing for another few minutes turning the map around in his hands as he did so. Pauline nodded knowingly with a glazed look in her eyes, waited until he’d finished (which was difficult because if she didn’t acknowledge what he’d been saying quite quickly he’d be off again on another Spanish conversation) and said “Gracias”. She then said to us, “I think we have to go off to our left instead of straight on.” At this point Hollie took the map, suddenly found a street name she recognised and with the confidence of a local tour guide said, “OK, I think we should go up here” – and off she went holding the map in the air with the rest of us trailing along behind her. By the time she’d led us to the road leading up to the cathedral she had half the tourist population of Tarragona behind her like the Pied Piper and his rats.
It was another scorching hot day and I spent my time walking in as many shaded spots as I could. Sometimes this was dead easy, many streets were shaded on one side due to buildings or trees but sometimes it proved to be more difficult when streets were positioned in the full glare of the overhead sun. in these cases I spent my time gazing up the street to the next available piece of shade, usually a small square of it thrown by a concrete column or high window ledge. The shady oasis provided some respite from the sun but only if I managed to stick my head in the minute shady area and leave the rest of my body sticking out and sweating in the sun. So while everyone else strolled along, there I was like some sort of fugitive, eyeing up the street ahead, identifying the next piece of shade, creeping along with my back as close to the wall as possible until I reached it, stopping and taking my hat off to cool down, searching ahead for the next shady area, putting my hat back on and starting off again.
I was arrested twice for suspicious behaviour.
And then we came across it. What looked like the main cathedral entrance in a pretty square with a couple of bars and a souvenir shop. The only trouble was, the cathedral doors were shut. Oh no, don’t say we’ve come all this way and God’s on his dinner break, or worse still, taken the afternoon off. Pauline decide to wander around the cathedral walls to look for any more entrances while we all stayed in the square. She came back shortly after finding the main visitor’s entrance just around the corner. We wandered through a sort of cloistered area until we came across a lady in a booth selling tickets. We paid and she gestured to a door just to the right of her.
This took us into a small museum area which we dutifully looked around and then we exited from what I thought was another door taking us through to the cathedral. Instead we found ourselves suddenly outside right by the ticket booth lady again. This can’t be all there is can there? If it is then God’s being a bit greedy with His entrance fee, it wasn’t exactly cheap. Then, the ticket lady, seeing our confusion, pointed to another door next to the one that we’d just came out of. This door was even smaller and more difficult to find than the first one but once we’d gone through it was like entering Dr. Who’s Tardis. On the other side of this tiny door was the interior of the cathedral with all its vastness and splendour hitting you in the face just across the threshold.
With the visit over, it was time for some serious shopping. We’d deliberately finished our cathedral visit by 5 pm so the girls could spend the evening doing what they do best but on the way back to the main city centre we passed shop after shop with their shutters down. Banks were closed, even the bars weren’t open. This was odd. Big cities don’t usually shut down for a siesta and the bars certainly don’t. the further we walked the more it dawned on us that the whole city was shut. It was a ghost city. We hardly saw another soul all the way back to the bus station. Surely Friday wasn’t half day closing was it? But then we hadn’t really noticed if the shops were open during the morning either as we were too intent on finding where the cathedral was. It was looking more and more as if everything had been closed all day.
So that was it and there we were. A special trip to Tarragona the shopping paradise of the area so that the girls could spend all their money had turned into a fiasco. Then the penny dropped. The empty streets, the closed shops, the interminable fireworks the night before – we’d picked the only day of the week which was a local Saint’s day and everyone was on a bloody day’s holiday. The girls were obviously disappointed but not too disappointed to want to come back another day for a shopping trip while I was mentally punching the air at the prospect of not having to sit around for hours waiting for everyone to re-appear from one shop and disappear into the next.
We arrived back at the bus station about 6 pm, found the bus stop area for our bus back to Salou and stood around with a gaggle of other people. The bus was already there, empty and waiting with its door closed. It was due to leave in fifteen minutes time. We stood in the queue and waited. Then with about one minute to go before departure, the bus driver sauntered over, opened the bus doors and stood to one side as the passengers started to board. But hang on, he seemed to be checking tickets. He was checking tickets. And turning away people who didn’t have one. We didn’t have tickets but then again we’d assumed we’d be buying them on the bus like we did when we came.
And then all hell broke loose.
People without tickets were shouting and waving their arms, the bus driver was shouting, gesturing and shrugging while at the same time climbing into the driver’s seat. We stood there confused until all of a sudden the other ticketless people made a dash for the ticket hall. Pauline suddenly shouted, “Quick, we must have to go and buy our tickets in there.” Another English voice said, “It’s up the stairs apparently.” We all rushed inside in a mild state of panic. Pauline tried to buy her bus tickets from a car park ticket machine until Emma shouted, “No mum, up the stairs, up the stairs.” Up the stairs we ran, bought the tickets and raced back down and outside hoping and hoping that the bus was still there. Thankfully it was.
The bus driver was sitting in his cab with, I swear, an amused expression on his face while everyone clambered breathlessly on board.
He’d seen it all before hadn’t he? And to be honest, this was obviously the sort of thing that brightened up his day and made his job worthwhile wasn’t it? I didn’t hold it against him. I think if I’d been a Spanish bus driver I’d be looking forward to these high points of the job every day and would have enjoyed every minute of it just as he’d done.
Bloody tourists eh?
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