Malta 2006 - Day 6

There appears to be only one music tape loop at breakfast.

If I hear Ben E. King’s Stand By Me followed by Del Shannon’s Runaway many more times I’m going to start taking hostages.

The pool area has a number of very large wooden-framed sun umbrellas. This morning one bloke was walking purposefully across the area and walked straight into one of the wooden spokes of an umbrella. He staggered back a few paces, looked around to see if anyone had noticed and with a hysterical giggle, pretended to anyone he thought had seen him do it that it really hadn’t hurt a bit. He then wobbled about a bit and walked straight into the pool.

No, he didn’t really do that last bit but I think he should have done don’t you? If only to make it even more amusing for us onlookers really.

Tonight at dinner there was a man at the buffet table wearing a football shirt with ‘Beckham’ written on the back. I said to Pauline in a loud stage whisper, “Look at that fat bloke over there, he thinks he’s David Beckham.

“Ssch, be quiet, his wife’s sitting at the next table,” she whispered.

I waited until fat Beckham returned and sat down and then got my first glimpse of his wife, in an even bigger football shirt, waddling up to the buffet. Why do they wear this stuff? Do they go out on a Saturday afternoon with friends and neighbours for a kick-about in the street? I bagsy being captain cos I’ve got Beckham on me shirt? Fat Beckham couldn’t lift his feet up to bloody well walk let alone kick a bloody ball. What sort of sad and frightening world do these people live in? They scare me, they really do.

After dinner we had a drink at a snack bar on the sea front. The metal table was perfectly level until the slightest amount of weight was put on it…anywhere. It didn’t matter where. If you put your glass down on the right hand side it would, without warning, suddenly lurch manically to the right; not too much but just enough to make me panic, grab for the glass and spill it. I’d pick the glass up, choose a better spot for it, perhaps near the centre of the table and it would happen again; and because I’d lulled myself into thinking it wouldn’t happen again, after all how could it, the glass was almost in the centre of the table, when it suddenly lurched over yet again I panicked even more and spilt even more. Finally I thought I’d cracked it; I had my glass in one corner, Pauline’s glass in the opposite corner, salt and pepper in another corner and the ashtray opposite when blow me, a bloody fly landed mid-table and upset the apple cart all over again!

It’s quite strange how some people act when in a confined space like a lift. Old people tend to be startled every time the doors open and close and even more startled and surprised when they walk into the lift and find other people in there. They make a slight hesitant stop before continuing to walk in, smiling apologetically for bothering you by calling the lift in the first place. Other people can’t get into the lift without saying something…anything…as long as they’re talking, always rubbish but expecting a reply from someone…anyone. And if they don’t get a reply they look embarrassed, disappointed and fall into silence.

I must say I’m getting to like the disabled lift. It’s got a pull down seat and everything.