Portugal 2009 - Day 10

As we sat down to breakfast this morning a foreigner who looked just like Toulouse Lautrec walked over, picked up Pauline’s knife and fork and waddled back to his own table with them. It was one of those things that rendered you speechless at the sheer rudeness of it all. To give him the benefit of the doubt, he was probably on the absinthe all night and just didn’t see Pauline sitting there…possibly…probably…

Breakfast is the usual spectacle of really overweight people eating far too much than is good for them. Particularly foreign women who seem to love piles of croissants, pastries, bread, jam, cheese and ham as their starter before launching themselves at the main course of scrambled eggs, sausages, beans, mushrooms and bacon finally finishing with bowls of fresh fruit, presumably to ease their conscience.

Pauline’s still doing her sleight of hand trick of swiping a few pastries into a serviette and putting them in her bag for lunch later. Over the years she’s perfected this into one fluid movement so that even I don’t notice it happening. Mind you as every day passes she gets bolder and bolder. Going into breakfast with two large holdalls doesn’t arouse any suspicion at all after you’ve done it the first time. I have my role to play too. I’m in charge of the liquids and again, over the years, I’ve perfected a method for this that arouses no suspicion whatsoever.

Here’s what you need: some string, a strong trouser belt and a kaftan. A Tommy Cooper fez might also be worn to make the outfit look more authentic and hence more effective but don’t be led by me, the whole point of this is to experiment with styles and colour and above all to have fun.

First cut the string into shortish lengths and tie a small loop at one end. You will of course already be wearing the trouser belt and kaftan. Now here’s the modus operandi:

Slowly browse along the breakfast buffet table until you reach the bottles of water and soft drinks.

Slow down and while still on the move, loop one of your pieces of string neatly over the neck of a bottle, hoist it up, over and down the front of your kaftan and…here’s the difficult bit that may need practising in your room a few times …put your other hand up your kaftan to meet the hand coming down and tie the string to the belt of your trousers so that the bottle hangs neatly down around your waist. Think French onion seller and if it helps, wear a beret. Preferably without the fez but then again, why not on top of the fez? The idea is to mix and match and feel free and liberated while doing so.

By now you should have strolled all the way round the buffet table and arrived back at the bottles again where you can repeat the process until you have a full complement of bottles hanging down from your trousers. A word of warning here though. Until you get used to it, the excessive weight around your waist may cause your legs to buckle under the strain but don’t panic, the kaftan is a most versatile item of clothing. Not only is it the only piece of apparel really fat people can wear, it will also cleverly disguise the fact that you’re walking with bent knees or even on your knees. If you do find you’re having to walk on your knees and you can’t reach up to the top of the buffet table for that next bottle of water the only thing to do is abort the mission for the day and waddle out of the restaurant with the items you’ve managed to get thus far. Practise soon makes perfect and you’ll soon get the hang of it.

So remember the eight golden rules: Stroll, string, loop, hoist, down, up, tie, stroll.

Now many of you reading this may well be saying, that’s fine for acquiring the cold liquid refreshment but how do I deal with hot liquids? Good question and one that needs answering. Scalding hot liquids sloshing around your waist and nether regions are never a good idea but there is a simple solution and what I do is this:

Once I see Pauline is making a move for the exit with her two holdalls I quickly attach my belt to the leg of the coffee urn and follow her out. And as I get shorter and shorter with the weight of the bottles and urn weighing me down the kaftan will disguise this fact by billowing out further and further across the floor which allows me to crawl past the man on the door appearing to be Pauline’s small son. Talking to Pauline in a high pitched voice completes the illusion. This is always enough to distract the man’s attention from the coffee urn and before you know it we’re back in our room.

Now it’s your turn.

I had to ring reception today to speak to Michael. “Michael,” I said, “there seems to be a problem with the lights in our room ever since we arrived, they won’t switch on or off. There must be an electrical fault somewhere.”

“Shall I come up and show you how to do it sir?” he said.

“No, I don’t want you to come and show me how to use a light switch Michael. It’s not rocket science is it? It’s obvious there’s a basic fault somewhere.”

”To help me diagnose the fault sir, please tell me exactly what happens.”

“Oh very well,” I said, “I press the button on the top of the box thing behind the toilet. The toilet for some reason fills with water but still no lights come on. Does nothing work in this damn hotel Michael?”

“Jesus Christ,” said Michael, “I’ll come up.”