Spain 1999 - Day 1

We’re bound for Gatwick today to catch the Malaga flight at 4 pm and from there we’ll be traveling to our hotel in Fuengirola.

Journey to airport uneventful.

Boarded the plane We have seats 26 A, B, C. They’re towards the rear of the plane and it took ages to get down there, stopping every few yards to let yet another person figure out whether they’ve reached their seats or not and when they have, waiting while they sorted themselves out by stowing their hand luggage, sitting down, standing up again, sitting down again, changing seats, standing up. getting their hand luggage down from the overhead locker, deciding they don’t want it after all and standing up again to put it back, sitting down again and finally sitting quietly fiddling with the air conditioning nozzles above their heads trying to direct the air flow which of course they can’t because it’s not switched on yet,

Finally getting to aisle 26 we found our seats already taken.

Sitting in them from window to aisle were a fat woman, a fat child (girl I think) of about 12 and a fat git with tattoos on his arms, an earring in his left ear, a shaven head and one of those sports leisure suit things that fat people wear because the trousers have elasticated waists and baggy legs (as do the people who wear them I might add), with the words “DONNAY” plastered all over the front. At first glance I thought it said ‘DONKEY’. Hmmm, nice name, I said to myself.

“Excuse me,” Pauline said, “We think you’re in our seats, we have 26 A, B and C.”

“No, don’t fink so, we’re in the right place,” the fat git said.

“Well our boarding card has us allocated to 26, A, B and C. What have you got on yours?” we asked.

“Row 26, that’s where we are,” said the fat git making no attempt to check his boarding card, “that’s right innit?” he asked his fat wife.

She nodded.

I can’t stand all this nonsense and just as I was about to call over one of the stewardesses Pauline does it, while I’m standing there thinking to myself how many stupid people are there in this world? And why do I always seem to meet them? Why doesn’t the fat git just get out his boarding card and check it? The bastard’s obviously in the wrong seat. They’re either too imbecilic to look at a number on a card and find that number above the aisle they want or (as Pauline suspects), they know they’re in the wrong seats and for some reason don’t want to sit in their allocated seats.

The stewardess glanced at our boarding card and asked the fat git for his.

He showed it to her immediately.

“You should be in 26 D and 27 E and F,” the stewardess told him.

“Oh, really?” the fat git said with a look of fake surprise.

“Oh dear, sorry, “ said the fat git’s wife.

They moved out and it became quite clear that they had taken the three nice seats in a row rather than their own which were split up. What was the point? Did they think our seats wouldn’t belong to anyone and they’d get away with it?

Did they think that if they just sat in them and told us they were their seats that we’d just say, “OK then, sorry, we’ll just sit in those seats over there which haven’t been taken even though our boarding card tells us we should have those seats you’re sitting in. It’s obviously our mistake. Boarding cards eh? Not worth the paper they’re printed on are they? Don’t mean anything do they? The allocated seat numbers on them are just there for a laugh aren’t they? Row 26, seats A, B and C allocated to us? So what?

You just sit there and enjoy yourselves in a neat little row you stupid, moronic, fat, pathetically dressed, greasy haired brainless bastards.”

The rest of the flight was fine.

We arrived at Malaga on time but before going through to collect our luggage Pauline wanted to go to the toilet. You know I spend so much time hanging around outside public toilets waiting for Pauline, it’s a wonder I’ve never been arrested. When she eventually emerged we reached the carousel to find that there was only our luggage on it, pathetically going round and round in a deserted luggage reclaim hall. I think she must have been in there longer than that time in Disneyworld when she missed the evening firework spectacular completely.

We passed through passport control to find a Virgin rep. waiting to tell us which coach to board, found it and settled down for an hours drive or so to our hotel in Fuengirola. Now, don’t know about you, but I have my own idea of what a female Virgin rep would be like haven’t you? What would you think? Young, attractive, bubbly, fun-loving, life and soul and all that?

Wrong.

Young yes, but that’s as far as it went. She was short, fat, unattractive and trying very hard to be funny and fun-loving but wasn’t. When it was time to talk to us punters over the microphone it was a disaster. It reminded me a bit of Norman Collier’s act with the dodgy microphone cutting in and out, one-two, one-two. The difference was that instead of the microphone cutting out, every few seconds there would be this enormous sound of feedback which she didn’t seem to know how to cope with. She was reading everything off small cue cards that she had in her hand and was desperately trying to be amusing. I was cringing in my seat. How did she get the job? Sleep with Richard Branson? Who knows? I’ll have to ask Richard next time I see him.

We got to the hotel at 10 pm and found our room surprisingly cramped. The hotel is rated four star but the room looks too small for three people. It’s a double room with an extra single bed squeezed in for Emma. Nothing wrong in that if the room is big enough to accommodate it but what with the extra bed and all the bits of furniture, we were already failing over ourselves trying to move around the room. Pauline said we should ask for a bigger room, in fact she said that she was going to ask for a bigger room.

As we made our way down to reception it turned out that I’m going to ask for a bigger room!

The receptionist said, “Sorry but all the rooms are part of the Virgin holiday allocation and can’t be changed, if you want a bigger room it will cost an extra 5,000 pesetas a night (about £20). All our double rooms are the same size, the only other rooms we have are suites. There’s nothing we can do sorry.”

Perhaps we should see the Virgin rep in the morning,’ said Pauline. “we thought we’d see If you could do anything for us before we unpacked and used the room.”

"0K, we’ll give you a suite for no charge,” the receptionist suddenly said. Why there was this sudden change of heart I don’t know but from being very unaccommodating she switched in a second to being very helpful. Still, she was Spanish.

From then on it was as if we were royalty. First a porter was assigned to move the single bed from the old room to the new one, the house-keeper was called to make up the bed in the new room and everyone was all smiles and sweetness and light. Why? Who cares. The new room was great, two rooms, bigger balcony, loads of space.

There’s a 30 minute meeting tomorrow at 9.30 am with the Virgin rep so we went to bed early at 1 am.

Spain 1999 - Day 2

Woke up with Pauline shouting, “We’ve overslept, we’ve overslept. It’s 9.35, we’ll never make that meeting now. I’ll have to go down and try and catch the last ten minutes of the meeting while you and Emma get ready

Breakfast is between 8 and 10.30 and it looks like we might not even make that. While Emma and I are bumbling about getting ready Pauline rushed off to the rep’s meeting. She got back to the room at 10.10 and we all rushed down to breakfast. Managed to get some but it’s disconcerting, sitting eating your toast when everything’s being cleared away and switched off.

Anyway, what shall we do today? How about a nice relaxing stroll along the sea-front, walk into town to get our bearings and the afternoon by the pool? Sounds horrible but we forced ourselves to do it.

Just started our stroll along the sea-front. Scorching hot, not a cloud in the sky. Suddenly we passed two blokes waving tickets in the air and shouting something at us. As in most holiday resorts these days there always seems to be a smattering of time-share touts about but not nearly as many as there used to be and consequently the chances of being bothered get remoter……….but there they were.

‘No thanks,” I said and strolled on only to turn around to see Emma and Pauline talking to them and being given scratch cards. I carried on walking trying to put as much distance between them and me as possible but as I strolled on I could hear in the distance phrases like “you could win a free holiday” and “you might win 400,000 pesetas” and “just spare us a few minutes” wafting along on the gentle cooling breeze.

I carried on walking, getting more and more annoyed that Pauline had stopped and got involved with these people. I couldn’t believe that Pauline of all people was letting herself be drawn into all this in the first place. I put even more distance between us and sat down on a bench. Not long after, one of these blokes ran up to me and said, “I know you won’t believe this but your wife’s just won one of the star prizes.”

“I don’t want to know. I’m not interested thanks,” I said.

“No, hang on. She really has, it’s either the free holiday, 400,000 pesetas or a camcorder. All you have to do to claim it is to go into our offices which are just opposite over there, let them tell you about our new revolutionary holiday hotel packages and walk out with your prize. It’s not time-share it’s an attempt to get away from time-share so you’ve got no worries.”

“I’m not interested thanks.”

“But you don’t have to do anything. Just go in, it’ll take 60 minutes of your time at the most and all you have to do is listen and then walk out with your prize.”

“No thanks.”

“It’s only a short time,” said Pauline, who, like Emma was convinced they had won something too good to turn down. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How many times have you read about the methods used in time-share selling and here was Pauline willing to believe that they were just going to hand over 400,000 pesetas or whatever - for nothing?

“Look, you’ve got nothing to lose sir and everything to gain. 60 minutes of your time, listen to some chat, watch a video and then you’ll be taken up to that hotel complex you can see along the coast there, have a look around, brought back and that’s it.”

“I don’t want to know. I don’t want to waste my time. First it’s a quick chat and collect your prize now it’s a 60 minute chat, watch a video and visit that hotel place, how long is all that going to take? I’ll tell you how long. All bloody day, that’s how long. Look, you tell me that, surpnse surprise, we’ve won one of three star prizes. Every scratch card you have will tell us that.”

‘No, that’s not true sir. Some people have won T-shirts, some win a bottle of Champagne. The big prizes are not that common.”

‘I am not interested, look, suppose we’ve really won one of these three big prizes and suppose I submit myself to at least 60 minutes of hell, which of the three prizes, a free holiday, 400.000 pesetas or a camcorder do you think I’ll win?”

‘Don’t know sir until we scratch off this part of the ticket once we get inside.”

“Well I do. It‘ll be the camcorder. The least expensive of the three.”

“We don’t know that It’s a one in three chance isn’t it?”

“No it’s not. It’s 100 per cent certain.”

“Don’t you want a camcorder?”

“Why, is that what I’ve won?”

“Not necessarily.”

“No, I don’t want a camcorder. I couldn’t care less.”

And so it went on. I had Emma and Pauline still wanting to go ahead, with me resisting. Eventually I said to Pauline, “If you want to do this then we’ll do it but I’m taking no part in what goes on and I’m taking no interest either.”

“Great, can I have your name please sir?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Come on, we don’t want your address, it’s just for reference.”

‘I’d rather not.”

“You don’t have to give us your real name. Make one up.”

“You make one up.”

“We need a name from you.”

“What difference does it make if you make it up or I make it up? lt’s just a false name”.

“But that’s not how it works.”

“OK I’ve made a name up - Schweizkof.”

“Thanks, you won’t regret any of this. How do you spell it?”

“How would you spell it if you’d just made it up? Pretend you’ve just made it up and you’ll be able to spell it won’t you?”

“OK, just come over the road there to the offices.”

He took us in to a place consisting of rows of tables and chairs where punters were being talked at by the company sales people. Before we did anything however we were asked to sit down at a desk while a young lady would give us an introduction with some background on what was going on.

“First, we’re not a time-share operation and –“

“We’ve already been told that.”

“OK, we are going to ask you to spend 60 minutes of your time and –

“We’ve already been told that too.”

“Right, well, it’ll be 60 minutes, we’ll take you to the hotel where you can have some fun and we’ll even lay on a taxi to bring you back.”

“Hang on,” said Pauline, some doubts beginning to enter her mind, “aren’t we taken there and back anyway?”

“When you stay the full 60 minutes and find yourselves enjoying it so much that you want to stay longer then we will bring you back along with everyone else who has stayed longer.”

“I just want to get the 60 minutes over with,” I said.

“I don’t think perhaps you have the right approach to this,” the young lady said to me.

“I’m not interested. I’ve never been interested.”

“Perhaps you should not be carrying on with this.”

“Couldn’t care less.”

“I think perhaps well just go,” said Pauline.

“It might be best,” said the young lady.

At this point, a smartly dressed man who had been hovering in the background suddenly came over and said, “It’s probably better if you feel that you don’t want to spare us some time now, to go away and maybe come back and see us another day. We’re always here and will be pleased to see you.”

The young lady then produced a pre-printed form and asked me to write down our reasons for not continuing and then to sign it. I didn’t feel that I should even bother to do this but I did.

“Thank you,” she said, “and have a fantastic holiday while you’re here.”

I was out of my chair and in the street before she’d finished the sentence. I was in a foul mood, we’d already wasted about 45 minutes and we’d only progressed a few hundred yards along the seafront.

“I don’t believe you let yourself get drawn into all that, I just don’t believe it,” I said to Pauline.

“I know, let’s forget it,” she said.

Further on we were passed by a car, it tooted at us and the two ticket touts were in it. “That was a quick 60 minutes,” they shouted sarcastically, “‘doesn’t time fly when you’re enjoying yourself.”

What a change in attitude that was. Earlier they were acting as our long-lost friends, now they were almost spitting out their anger at realising we hadn’t taken up the offer. No commission for you then, I thought. Bloody good job too.

“By the way, what did you write on that girl’s form,” asked Pauline.

‘It’s not been a pleasure. I hope you all rot in hell,” I said.

{Wish I had though)

We strolled through the town later and passed Stringfellows club. Didn’t know he had a club in Fuengirola did you? It wasn’t until I got closer that I noted in very small letters above “STRINGFELLOWS” the word ‘Ronnie’. Must be his brother I suppose or could even be his dad. Can’t imagine its someone unrelated just cashing in on the name somehow can you?

We found a small bar away from the sea front and down a side street which we went in for lunch. Three beers and four tapas for under four pounds, not bad. I always make a point or drinking and eating in the bars and restaurants that are frequented by the locals. The atmosphere’s better, the prices are cheaper and you don’t usually get any bloody English tourists in them. Always a bonus. As we left we said we’d make sure we went back and took a visual note of the surrounding landmarks so we could be sure of finding it again.

Spent the afternoon on the beach.

There’s a sign by the hotel pool which says “WIMMING NOT ALLOWED AT NIGHT”. Quite right too eh? Don’t want them splashing about, screaming and acting all soppy at all hours of the night while we’re trying to sleep do we?

For dinner tonight there was a choice between Porc Cuttle and Seafarin Fish. Yum yum.

After dinner we watched a show in the hotel. It was billed as Brazilian Carnival 2000. It consisted of two gay male dancers and four women who may or may not have been gay, I find it hard to tell really. Anyway, they were dancing to backing tapes of Brazilian carnival music and to try and relieve the tedium they had a short fat bloke who came on and juggled with what looked like round gold painted tea trays. He spun them like plates and balanced them on his head, hands, feet and penis. What can I tell you? It was, well, bloody boring.

He only really used his head, hands and feet, but you knew that already didn’t you?

Spain 1999 - Day 3

Another stroll through the town this morning and then it’s off to that Spanish bar we found yesterday for a light lunch. We spent the next two hours trying to find the damned place and gave up in the end.

All three of us had made a mental note of its whereabouts yesterday but could we find the bugger? “Oh, I remember this,” said Pauline as we rounded yet another street corner, “I’m sure it’s round here somewhere.” Emma was getting hot, tired and grumpy because she just wanted to go back to the hotel pool. “Just hang on,” I said to her, “it can’t be far from where we are because I recognise that hairdressers on the corner and we passed it after Ieaving the bar yesterday. It must be just down here, I promise.”

Thirty minutes later I said, “Well I don’t know where it’s gone. I’m starving let’s find another place.”

We found another bar. Just as cheap and basic as the other one. FulI of Spanish locals and not a tourist in sight. Wonderful.

I managed to order two beers, some water and a coke using my schoolboy Spanish but have no idea what I said to get the coke. I didn’t want it in the first place. Still, I pretended I did so that was all right.

Afternoon by the pool.

I keep seeing news reports about terrorist acts being committed by the Basques but they’re not the only Spanish ethnic group causing trouble at the moment. I’m more worried about some of the others which are creeping out of the woodwork and whose credentials are largely unknown.

As well as the Basques, there have been reports of bombings by The Corsets, The Girdles, The Halter-Tops and The Nighties while hostages are still being held by The Suspenders, The Undies, The Frilly Garters and The Crotchless Panties.

It’s a worrying time all right.

Spain 1999 - Day 4

We want to go to Granada at some point to see the Alhambra and we also want to tour around a bit without hiring a car so we made our way to the local bus and train stations to check out times and destinations. While we were there we bought some tickets for a coach trip to Gibraltar tomorrow.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I discovered I had a huge gap in my geographical knowledge about Gibraltar. When we asked about tickets for the ferry to get us over to the Rock once we were there, the man looked at us with a surprised expression and told us there was no ferry. You don’t need a ferry; you just drive into Gibraltar, its part of the Spanish mainland.

Well I’ve always been under the impression that Gibraltar was a small British colony off the coast of Spain, just a big rock surrounded by sea, but its not. It’s a big rock stuck on the end of a Spanish peninsular. No wonder the Spanish aren’t happy about us owning it. Somehow the thought of us owning a small piece of rock stuck in the ocean off the coast of Spain seems more acceptable than us owning a small piece of Spanish mainland

Still, we do and we’re not letting the greasy dagos have it back, so there. They can whinge all they like but we’ve spent too much money on Gibraltan red pillar-boxes and English policeman uniforms to let it all go now.

Back to the hotel pool for the afternoon, stopping off on the way at our local bar for lunch. You know we still haven’t stumbled across that first bar we found two days ago. Emma and I think we must have somehow wandered into the Twilight Zone and that the bar will only materialise on a Wednesday. We’re making plans to go out next Wednesday to look for it again and we expect to find it immediately. And when we do find it, we’re going to stay in it until midnight to see if we disappear. We’ll get Pauline to stand outside though, just in case we need help in getting back.

We’ve decided to visit Granada next Tuesday and Wednesday. Pauline’s booked us into a hotel for the Tuesday night so we can spend the next day doing our sightseeing bit. The hotel is practically opposite the Alhambra, so they told us, so should be easy-peasy to get tickets on the Wednesday morning for admission to the Alhambra that day. No early morning traveling involved, just stroll out of the hotel and we’re there. We’ll travel by bus or train but haven’t found out the options yet.

Spain 1999 - Day 5

Early start for Gibraltar. Up at 7 am. We have a ten minute walk to the coach pick up point. Coach arrived at 8.25 am.

Emma’s feeling travel sick and it’s an hour and a half journey. The coach stopped for a break and we got some sick bags. During the rest of the journey Emma was sick a few times but by the time we got there she was just feeling generally under the weather.

Before entering Gibraltar we have to go through customs control but all that entails is an official walking down the aisle of the coach glancing every now and again to see if everyone has their passport. We’re told that we are not allowed to spend more than 28,500 pesetas (about £110) and are only allowed to bring back one bottle of booze and 200 cigarettes. As soon as the coach had driven through customs control we drove straight across Gibraltar’s one airplane runway and made our way to a huge car/coach park. There we transferred to a small minibus for a guided tour of the Rock. The tour was only scheduled to take about 30 minutes so that gives you a good idea of how little there was to see. The highlight of the tour was the stop-off to see the famous apes. It was only a highlight because the rest of the tour was so boring.

The monkeys were remarkably tame and although they could look vicious they weren’t aggressive. Good job too really, seeing as they were strolling around your feet and above your head as you walked by. It’s not surprising that they were tame considering they spend all their lives following tourists around hoping they might be fed even though there were signs saying ‘Do Not Feed The Monkeys’. I was wandering around carrying an empty plastic bag because Emma was still feeling queasy when it was suddenly snatched out of my hand by a cheekeh monkeh who ran off with it. He doesn’t know how lucky he was really. It could have been sloshing around with sick for all he knew. Still, he probably would have eaten it anyway.

After the tour we had a few hours to wander around. Basically this involved walking along Main Street which is a very long high street with shops and shops and shops. It further involved me carrying shopping bags and sitting on benches every now and then while Pauline and Emma disappeared into shops and shops and shops.

We bought a bottle of brandy for £1-90p, a bottle of gin for £2-50p and because it was so cheap, 40 litres of petrol for 42p a litre. On the walk back to the coach Emma kept complaining about how heavy the petrol cans were but when I explained how much we were saving she strapped them back onto her shoulders and stopped complaining. She stumbled a few times under the weight but I promised her some water once we reached the coach and that seemed to spur her on. Mind you she wasn’t the only one struggling. My bag of two bottles of booze was beginning to take its toll too you know.

The heat. The damned heat was getting to us all.

Spain 1999 - Day 6

Lazy day. Late breakfast. All day by the pool.

The lifts in the hotel are great. They only take a maximum of four people and they have a small row of LED lights in each lift which register the current loaded weight. If anyone gets in and the lights go into the red, an instant beep tells everybody that the Iift is over-loaded.

Our room is on the tenth and top floor so we’re usually the first in and last out and Emma and I play at predicting whether this person or that person will be able to get in with us without setting the beep off. I can imagine it’s quite embarrassing for them to get in and set the alarm going with me standing by the door shouting down the hall, “Another fat bastard’s over-loaded the lift everybody.” Some of the people are so fat they can’t get in the lift even on their own. They spend all their time puffing up and down the stairs.

Spain 1999 - Day 7

We found it!

There it was, materialising right in front of our very eyes. Shimmering in the distance. We must have just crossed over into the Twilight Zone because that bar was bloody there. Up until now I haven’t been a great believer in the paranormal but now I’m a convert. How else can you explain the fact that a solid building can be standing in one spot then disappear only to reappear the following Monday in exactly the same place? And, I kid you not, in a street that we’d walked down loads of times before and definitely hadn’t seen it. Honest it wasn’t there until now, it wasn’t, it really wasn’t.

We went in for a drink and a snack to make sure it wasn’t just a cardboard replica and found the same barman as last Wednesday. I had to get to the bottom of this somehow.

“Did you have many customers YESTERDAY AND THE DAY BEFORE AND THE DAY BEFORE AND THE DAY BEFORE THAT?” I asked subtlely.

“Been on holiday for the past four days?” I said with a knowing wink.

I turned away from the bar as if to go out and then suddenly turned round quickly and said quietly in an accusing way, “I suppose you’ve served a lot of SPIRITS recently.”

“HAVE YOU?” I shouted.

It was all to no avail, It was obvious he didn’t want to talk. Mainly because he was Spanish and couldn’t understand a bloody word I was saying.

As I left I swear I heard him say, “See you next Wednesday” followed by a maniacal laugh which echoed down the street and faded into the distance as we ran for our lives along the street, that same street we’d walked down a hundred times before.

Spent the afternoon by the pool.

Spain 1999 - Day 8

Off to Granada today. We got to the bus station and boarded the bus. It left at 9 am and gets there three and a half hours later. Hope Emma’s going to be OK.

Still, its air-conditioned and comfortable with Radio Malaga playing UK and American hits as we cruise along the Spanish motorways. Hotel California comes on and I just know the DJ will talk over the best two minutes of the record and, yes, here he comes waffling away just as the two minute end guitar solo gets underway, bastard. It seems every day I have to add another name to my list of people who piss me off.

We arrived at the central bus station in Granada at 12.45 pm. Throughout the journey Emma wasn’t feeling that wonderful but at least she wasn’t actually sick. When we got off the bus all she wanted to do was sit down again. She didn’t want to walk or do anything so we went across the road from the bus station to a bar for something to eat and drink in the hope that it might do the trick and make her feel better. It did and we started to think about making our way to the hotel. We had the address but really only knew that it was somewhere very close to the Alhambra. While finishing our meal we decided to ask the barman if he could tell us where we were now on a map in relation to the Alhambra. I tried to communicate in broken Spanish when he suddenly interrupted me and said, “It’s OK, I speak some English.”

He didn’t stop me until I’d got in a right old muddle though, just so he could have a good laugh at my expense probably. He continued in perfect English, “If you go across the road and get the No 6 bus, ask the driver for El Alhambra, he will, if he’s nice, tell you when you get there. The bus stops in the city and you will have to walk from there to El Alhambra, its about half a mile away. The bus will only cost three to four hundred pesetas and will be much better than getting a taxi.”

“Thanks”, we said. I was still miffed at being left to struggle with my Spanish while all the time he could speak English. “I bet that’s the only bit of English he knows,” I said to Pauline, “I bet he can’t say anything else.”

The bus driver was nice. He told us when to get off and pointed in the general direction we had to walk. The barman was right, it was about half a mile away. What he didn’t tell us was that we had to walk most of the way up a one in three incline in the boiling heat of the midday sun with me carrying a heavy overnight bag for the three of us while tourist mini-buses cruised past us as I stumbled, swore and sweated my way up the steep mountain road to where we assumed our hotel was.

“It’s not bloody up here,” I kept saying to Pauline.

“Yes it will be,” she kept saying back.

“The air’s getting thinner”, I said taking my T-shirt off and ringing the sweat out, “Where did you put the oxygen pack and the salt tablets?”

‘Look, there’s the hotel,” said Emma as we rounded a bend. The sign in the distance said ‘ OTEL ASHINGTO ‘. Yes, that’s the Hotel Washington all right, I thought, “You two go on ahead and check us in, l’ll catch up. Just make sure my ropes are tight and leave me with enough crampons to get me to the top.”

Emma and Pauline were in the hotel foyer checking in when I came crashing through the double doors. T-shirt tied round my forehead, shorts wet with sweat and hanging down at the back below buttock level. Re-bounding against the furniture I made my way up to where they were standing, finally dropping to my knees and crawling the final few feet leaving a snail’s trail of sweat behind me on the carpet.

“Sanctuary”, I croaked, knowing that now everything was going to be all right. Our problems were over.

The receptionist said something to Pauline I didn’t quite catch. ‘What did she say?” I asked.

“She said we’re on the fifteenth floor and the lifts are broke.”

The doctor said I’d be OK, there’d just been some sort of explosion in my head that’s all.

Spain 1999 - Day 9

The Alhambra is the old walled city and within the walls are the remains of two palaces and some really beautiful gardens. The number of visitors this place gets is phenomenal and the only way to cope with the numbers is to restrict the number of tickets sold.

Tickets go on sale everyday at 9 am and continue to be sold until that day’s allocation runs out. When you buy your ticket you also have a time slot allocated to you and you have to present yourself at the entrance to the main palace within that time period. If you miss it, you’ve lost your chance of seeing the palaces for that day and all you can do is view the grounds and gardens. You also have no choice in the time slot allocated to you, it could be anytime throughout the day. So bearing all this in mind, Pauline decided she would get to the ticket office by 9 am to make sure we could get in. It was only a short walk from the hotel but it meant yet another early morning after a very long day.

She was up and out before Emma and I realised she’d gone and we were under strict instructions to be ready when she returned. We were all so tired due to a bastard dog keeping us awake for over two hours or so in the early hours of the morning by barking continuously from somewhere next door to the hotel.

Christ, if it kept all of us awake why didn’t we see people walking around the hotel this morning looking like zombies? We didn’t. Are they all deaf?

Pauline came back with our tickets at about 8 45 am and said, “Quick, get ready, our time slot is for 9.15, we’ll have to look round the palaces and then come back for breakfast, after breakfast we can go back anytime and look around the gardens.”

So we did. So that was nice.

We finished the sightseeing, checked out of the hotel and made our way back to the central bus station. Because Emma is such a bad car/coach traveller we decided to get a ninety minute bus ride back to Malaga and from there get a train to Fuengirola (30 mins). Not only would it cut down the journey time it would reduce Emma’s time on the bus. We arrived at Malaga, Emma was fine and found the train station. Easy, no problems. Then, it started to get difficult. How do we get a train ticket? There were six ticket counters all right but there seemed to be crowds of people standing away from them, just waiting. We couldn’t understand why people weren’t just walking up to the counter and buying a ticket. Then we realised that you had to go up to a machine, take out a ticket with a number on and wait your turn. Just like waiting at the supermarket deli counter.

Pauline took a ticket. It was number 539. We looked at the overhead display, the current number being processed was 505 and our train left in 25 minutes. That’s a lot of numbers to get through in 25 minutes I thought but how long does it take to buy a train ticket? Not long does it?

Judging by the crowds building up around the ticket counters and the time some people were taking to get served I was beginning to worry that we might miss our train after all. We stood around with everyone else and watched and waited. Ten minutes went past, fifteen minutes went past and the overhead ticket display had only clicked on to 5 16!

What the hell are they doing? Each person who reaches the ticket counter is taking bloody ages to buy a ticket. How difficult is it? A ticket to Barcelona please. Certainly, that will be 5,000 pesetas please. Next. Two minutes at the most. But they’re standing there, jabbering away for eternity. Look, the ticket display’s still only on 525 and we’ve been hanging around for thirty minutes, our train has gone and the crowds are getting bigger.

We only want a local train ticket even though this station is a major main line terminus and at a guess most of the passengers are travelling the length and breadth of Spain. Perhaps there’s somewhere else you have to go to buy a Iocal train ticket, perhaps these counters are just for non-local journeys. We had no way of telling so Pauline went up to one of the counters just as one Spaniard had walked away and before the next one could commandeer it. “Do we buy a ticket to Fuengirola here or do we have to go somewhere else to buy it?” she said with an irate

Spaniard behind her thinking that she had pushed in front of him to buy a ticket. The ticket clerk just gestured towards the crowds of people waiting to be served so we started to hang around again.

The display clicked onto 529, 531, 532, each click taking at least five minutes before the next one. Each customer is taking forever and a day to process. I can’t believe how slow it all is.

And then it’s our turn, click it’s 530. Pauline rushes to the counter and says, ‘Fuengirola, tres por favor.”

The man says, “No, you go downstairs to other platform and get ticket for Fuengirola.”

“But that man said we had to wait and queue here with everybody else,” said Pauline getting really angry.

“No, down there,” the man said.

“But we’ve been waiting around here for over forty minutes and already missed one train,” said Pauline almost crying with anger.

“No, down there,” the man said again.

We gathered our belongings and went down some stairs. There we saw another ticket office and another series of platforms. This was the place where the local trains departed from. It was deserted. The ticket hail was completely empty. We walked straight through, bought our tickets immediately and stood on the platform.

“I hope that first man in the ticket office falls under a train,” said Pauline, “how dare he be so off-hand and unhelpful, he knew we wanted tickets to Fuengirola and he could see us waiting around all that time after I spoke to him. Why did he do it?” she said almost in tears.

“Don’t worry,’ I said, “his name’s gone to the top of my list.”