135. The holiday

The holiday comes in several parts.

The room.

The hotel.

The kids.

The weather.

The resort.

The friend.

The room is OK, JUST.  It’s shabby and cramped but just hovers on the right side of OK. 

The hotel is nice.  Owned by a Spanish family.  Staff are friendly but not too much so (can’t bear obsequiousness) .

The kids.  NOT, NOT, NOT OK.  The bloody hotel is full of kids; boys to be precise, on football camp holidays.  They are unsupervised and roam the hotel until 1.30 in the morning.  I complain at reception every night.  Every night the very nice receptionist goes to the room above mine to tell them her version of ‘shut the fuck up you little shit heads.’

The weather is OK.  My first day there it rains.  For the rest of the week it is sunny and warm.  I lie on the roof terrace reading and sunbathing.  I pretend to myself I’m also writing a scheme of work for year nine.  This is a lie.

The resort is OK.  It’s a residential area.  The hotels there are for Spanish tourists.  Nice, other than the fact that the Spanish frequenting them are accompanied by hordes of kids who they do not monitor or supervise.  I’m beginning to see British kids in a more favourable light.  I AM however, very grateful for the lack of British louts. 

The friend.  Well, well, well.  On my 3^rd day, I notice a plumpish, bleached blonde lady of a rather indeterminate age on the roof terrace.  The same evening, in the bar, this lady makes conversation with me.  Within the first five minutes, she tells me she is on holiday partially recovering from breast cancer.  Uh huh.  I recognise her accent and ask where she’s from.  Gateshead.  Where was she treated?  Oh yes, at the Freeman.  OMG. 

We’re not inseparable for the remainder of the holiday, but it is nice to have some company.  One evening, we venture out to the next town.  We have a mediocre meal and do some strolling shopping and chatting.  Somehow, we miss the last train home, get followed by a gangster/dealer type and struggle to get a taxi.  Finally, we find an English bar, I chat up the cross eyed dwarf barman, who orders us a taxi, on condition that I give him a kiss.  As if. 

Ironically, me and the new friend are on the same plane home.  We want to sit in different places on the plane and do.  In the airport I’d pulled a rather good looking gentleman although I made no effort to do anything about it.  On the plane I consider it, but decide against it.  Not with a boob and a half hon.