Strange(rs) By The Pool

 I eventually relaxed into my holiday. It takes me about four days to get to this point as I'm not very good at 'go slow’. Finally, when even walking to the pool became an effort, I'd collapse on a sun bed, rev up my iTunes and put my big sunglasses on.

 Big, dark sunglasses have several benefits but the most important one is being able to spy on the fellow guests without them realising.  People fascinate me normally but on holiday even more so: There's the couples that don't talk to each other; like EVER and just sit there staring into space for a whole week. I wonder if they've perhaps got Alzheimer's and actually haven't got a clue who they are with.  I like to watch how people arrange their little areas ready for sun worshipping and see what book they are reading so I can analyse their personality.  I pay attention to who’s getting pissed at 10.30 am so I can avoid them like the plague incase they want to become 'bezziez' and I don’t go in the pool when they do. And so on. 

Anyway, this particular fine day I noticed a new, middle aged couple had arrived. Their area was very pristine with posh towels and bottles of ‘Evian’ and other named waters. A selection of ‘Piz Buin’ suntan lotion was neatly displayed on their little table with face sprays and electrical equipment.  She had a massive bag like ‘Sac magique’ and I wondered what the hell she had in it that wasn’t already on offer. I noticed she had Gucci sunglasses on and the side arms of her glasses matched her animal print bikini. Obviously they had money so I let the animal print thing slide from judgment because they did make the place look pretty. It’s not that I’m averse to animal print (in very small doses) but when it’s adorned with matching glasses, matching sarong and mules I tend to get a bit safaried out by it.  And you shouldn’t wear mules by a pool. Put your flip flops on and stop pretending it’s Milan High Street.

 I got sidetracked for a moment, as is the case, by some rather horrendous flying bug with a red body and green wings and when I glanced back I noticed they were both lying down, looking non sweaty and elegant and reading their novels. How do people do that elegant thing? Anyway,who cares.

 After a while I noticed her foot was tapping furiously,  which was kind of irritating as it was in my peripheral vision. It was then that I realised she was reading ‘Fifty shades of Grey’ - OH HOW TWO THOUSAND AND LATE!  That book annoyed me so much that I couldn’t even get past chapter two of book two. The main girl in it drove me bonkers and I could have manacled her to a wall and whipped her arse myself for being so annoying, but that’s another story.  Fair play to the author who’s now minting it and and lying on a yacht somewhere.

Going back to the lady, I figured she was probably at a steamy part of the novel and her sex life had never reached such heady delights as were being read. So, of course, this made me pay attention to her husband. Average looking bloke really, nothing to shout home about.  Seemed well together and wasn’t in matching animal print which went in his favour. I couldn’t see what he was reading but it looked historical and was a thick book which made me like him a bit more. He wasn’t likely to start being an arsehole.

 The woman was becoming more and more agitated and clearly not comfortable on her sun bed despite her fluffy posh towel. Husband was oblivious to her horizontal shuffle and well engrossed in The battle of Trafalgar, or such like. 

“Boy, are you in for a good seeing to later.” I thought. “All your Christmasses are about to come at once.” So to speak. Bless him.  He didn’t look the sort to be spanking his way through the animal clad bottom, but you never can tell can you?  Don’t judge a book by it’s cover.  The irony.

All of a sudden, the lady jumped from her bed and pulled another towel from her bag and quickly wrapped it around herself. I was then distracted by my Mother next to me who was already on her fourth novel.

“Why aren’t you reading your book?”  She asked. This is typical of my Mother. Everything has to be educational. Unless we’re at the cocktail bar which, well...that was an education in itself.

“Shhh...There’s far more interesting stuff going on elsewhere.”  I whispered. 

“You’re strange.” She replied.

“Your genes.” I retorted.

As I looked back over, the woman was taking off her bikini under her towel. Why? She’d only been there half an hour. Had Mr Grey had that serious an effect on her already? Good grief. She then pulled another bikini from the Mary Poppins bag and, all credit to her, it was a nice turquoise ensemble that was rather fetching. She put it on under her towel, straightened herself out and began to wander slowly to the pool steps. 

Obviously she was a little hot. 

She began to swim the breast stroke, slowly up and down the pool (glasses still on) pink lippy to boot and making desperately sure she didn’t get her hair wet.  Have never understood that.  Don’t go in water then.

Then, to my surprise, she began to freak out in the water.

“Oh, Oh, Roger!”  She shouted across to her settled husband. What an appropriate name, I giggled to myself.

“Quickly!” she urged as her hands flew to her ears, “My earrings are swelling!” 

WTF ?

Roger leapt up from his bed and rescued the swelling earrings from the clutches of his Mrs and all calmed down again.

Who has earrings that swell? Even with my superb analytical skill at over thinking, I couldn’t come up with an answer. This woman was starting to disturb me.

She then got out of the pool and went back to her bed, retrieving the other fluffy towel and removing her now turquoise bikini.   What?  I mean can somebody help me out here?

Out of the bag came bikini number 3 in the space of an hour and a half! A red and gold one, to be precise. 

“Mother,” I whispered. “That woman has changed swimsuits three times.”

“My Mum glanced over. “No she hasn’t, don’t be silly.” She said.

“Yes she bloody well has! Do you think she’s allergic to material?” 

Later that evening as we made our way up the manmade road to the strip, I stumbled on a pot hole and went my full length cutting my leg and foot. Karma?

All week long I’d been telling my Mother to be careful of the dodgy roads as we made our way home, half cut from alcohol, in the pitch black and there goes me, sober and together, across the whole street.  The funny thing was the people who picked me up, promptly carried me straight to a cocktail bar where I was plied with free drinks to make me feel better.

Whatever gave them that idea? People can get you so wrong... 

Happy hour (s)

Thankfully the rammel got off at another complex and I let go of the breath I'd been holding. I was stressed, tired to the point of relentless hysteria and hotter than doddery old daddykins behind me. We finally got to our destination and  were greeted by a  lovely Greek  man who took us to our room.

Now I usually worry about where my Mother is going to take me as it is either five star opulence or hovel. My recent experience of 'Hotel California' only aided in fuelling my fear. After all, this is Greece which is known for its basic, simplistic charm; not to mention the fact they're running out of moolah and a severe lack of German tourists. Thankfully it was simple, clean and quiet. 

The gentleman showed us how to work everything and handed my Mother the key to the apartment. 

" I need drink and food." I said to my Mother, " I haven't had anything for six hours and I'm fading." 

"Yes me too." She agreed.

"Right, lets go. Where's the key?" I asked as I went to shut our door.

" I don't know." She looked around bewildered.

"But he just GAVE it to you!" 

We spent the next 40 minutes looking for it. It was nowhere to be found. Bags were emptied and cupboards that we hadn't even been in we're checked. I don't know why we do that when we look for things, it's very odd. Like, did I have a momentary lapse of conscious and hide it somewhere without realising? 

"Have you eaten it? Flushed it down the toilet?" I asked, exasperated. 

She actually went to check and I wondered whether or not to go and drop her off with doddery old Dad for company. She'd be like catnip for him.

Eventually she found it in her pocket.

 Her. Pocket.

We went across the little man made road to our complex pool bar. 

" Shall we have a jug of sangria?" My Mother enthused.

" Anything to numb the pain."  I replied.

I sat outside near the pool. The empty pool that glistened under the suns rays. I saw a few people lying quietly around on sun beds.. Couples reading books and being civilised and speaking proper English.  The only noise  was the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra singing from the bar. I suddenly started to like my Mummy again.

After sating my weary self with a Greek salad, an omelette and sangria we went to meet our rep in the bar.  He looked about 15 and came from Liverpool. 

He greeted about five of us as we sat listening to his description of the island.

"And if yous want some karaoke you can go to.."

"No." I said.

"And there's loads of clubs in..."

"No." 

"Or we do a booze cruise on a..."

" Really?" I asked.   His face sparked up at my possible interest.

"No." I said firmly.  He gave me a booklet on the island trips which I took outside into the sunshine and pretended to read.

We went back to our  little studio room as  I needed to have a shower to wash away the trauma of the aeroplane and coach load of dross that I felt  had permeated into every thread of clothing and every pore on my skin.  

No hot water. Not even bordering on tepid. In a land of permanent sunshine and solar panels.  Off I trotted to back to the teenage rep. 

"There's no hot water.." I said to his little, young face. He looked back at me with childlike wonder.  This clearly didn't fit in with his booze cruise script. Thankfully a nearby holiday maker heard me.

" You have to turn all the taps on in the kitchen and the bathroom and the shower and wait ten minutes before it works." She said.

Three hundred hours later when we' d finally showered in hot water we went out into the little town and down the street full of bars and restaurants.  Now when you come here everybody is touting for your business. Particularly in a place where businesses need your money.  Every second we were greeted  by a 'Mr Charming' and his spiel.

" Hello lovely ladies...fantastic to see you..come in here and let us look after you..what is your name..oh very beautiful."

Yawn. At first I was very polite and responded with a "Thank you. Yes, lovely to meet you, just having a look round and I'll see..yes, it's been a pleasure." But then I got racked off. It's like shopping at home in the city centre where you are relentlessly pestered by 'Big Issue' sellers or ' Save the whale' students. My responses got more curt the further I went down the strip. I don't know what happened to me. I used to be nice.

Suddenly my Mum spotted a lovely little cocktail bar.

"Shall we have a cocktail?" She enthused. I looked at the chalked up blackboard outside which read " Happy hour from 2pm -midnight. All cocktails only two euros.' 

"Anywhere that has a ten hour, happy hour works for me." I replied, and in we went.

As she studied the drinks  menu I watched the sun setting over the mountains and started to relax into my environment.  I looked across the table  at my Mothers puzzled face.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I'm stuck between a blow job and a screaming orgasm.' She replied.

" For the love of God." I shook my head and wished I'd been brought up by nuns; maybe I'd have turned out better. " I don't really see how you can be stuck between the two. For only two euros I'd take the screaming orgasm all night long." I replied.

"You ask for them then then." She said as the barman approached our table. Great. Now I refuse to be intimidated such things, so I looked the Greek Adonis straight in his green eyes and said, very confidently,  " I would like two screaming orgasms please." 

"My absolute pleasure." He replied in his soft, Mediterranean accent.  What a bizarre conversation and one that would not usually be met with such enthusiasm under different circumstances.

"And two blow jobs!" Piped up my Mother before he left.

"Absolutely!" He responded with a grin. Typical bloke. A lot more more excited by the latter order.

Our four cocktails arrived with bells and whistles and we supped happily on them as we watched the passers by. 

"Oh dear," said my Mother, "look at that woman.." 

Now I generally don't care what people look like, what they dress in or how they decide to do their hair etc. I'm all for people expressing themselves and becoming their own individual piece of art. However, there are certain instances when  one has to take stock and know that something is just wrong. 

The woman was in her mid fifties and on the rather  large side. Now that's all ok but not when sporting a lace mini dress from Primark, an orange 'go glow' tan, fluorescent pink and orange hair, and red cowboy boots. This kind of eccentricity only works on 15 year old girls with bodies like ladyboys. Fact. 

I turned to my Mother and said, " Mirror, mirror, on the wall....you lying bastard."

My Mother spat her blow job all over the table.  I found this rather more appropriate than her earlier 'mmmmm's' and 'ahhhh's'. Given, it was a yummy, creamy cocktail but so inappropriately named.  Again, under normal circumstances, a woman swallowing your 'hot fish yoghurt' and professing to thoroughly enjoy it, is probably just after your money. 

We left the bar somewhat tipsy and reverting to 'British' type when we were set upon by Gypsy Rosa Lee and her bunch of roses. 

" Oh God." I mumbled as I looked round for means of escape. I'm always, always made a play for by the mumbo, jumbo, witchety types who totally freak me out.

Too late. She offered me a rose and I declined as politely as possible hoping she wouldn't do anything nasty to me.  She then forced it into my hand and said I could have it for free. Yeah right. Then she actually touched my face, looked deep into my eyes and said, "Beautiful. Many talented." And then something else in a foreign, spell like language.

"Mother, give her some money, I think she's cursed me!" I urged.

My Mother gave her five euros. 

"No. Ten!" She snapped.  Hold on! It was bloody free a minute ago!  My Mother stuck to her guns ( well, it wasn't her being cursed was it) and the gypsy lady accepted gracefully and snapped a plastic tube around my Mothers wrist before wandering off to find her next victim.

We made our way down the unmade, unlit road to a little Greek taverna for dinner. It was then that I noticed my Mothers arm was all lit up in bright neon green.

"Oh great," I said, "She HAS cursed me. Now I can even see you in the dark!" 

Zante- The arrival

A few weeks back it was my birthday and I was stuck in A-Z hell with flu to boot and nearly broken wrists from too much typing. 

" What do you want for your birthday?" My Mother asked during my trauma. 

" Nothing." I fibbed. "Sleep, paracetamol and a month at a desert island would be good."

" I think I need a holiday soon...would you like to go away?" 

" Yes, that would be nice." I replied, thinking how funny it was that my Mum always managed to get involved in my gifts.

" Well, it can't be anything expensive!  I'm already going away in June." She retorted like I'd demanded this when it was her idea.  I felt somewhat confused.

"Well we don't have to go away then! " I said, fully knowing that this would not be an option now the travel bug was firmly planted in her mind. " But, if we do..I want quiet. Sun, peace, no kids or ravers, no drama, just serenity. That's my only prerequisite." 

At 4am yesterday we made our way to the airport to travel to a Greek island called Zante.

As I stood in the queue at airport security I peered at my Mother through sleepy eyes and noticed something different about her.  This usual blue eyed, platinum blonde woman had suddenly grown VERY  dark brown eyebrows.

"Err... Mother, what's happened to your eyes?"

" Don't! I  got conned into having them tinted by the eyebrow threading lady and now I look like bloody Joan Crawford!" 

"Kind of appropriate." I remarked.  She belted me on the arm and I suddenly woke up a bit.

" Exactly where are we staying Mommy dearest?" I asked her.

 My Mum has a unique way of hiding as much information as possible from me, taking control freak to a whole new level.

" I don't know, somewhere beginning with C I think. It sounds like a fish dish." 

Turns out it was Kalamaki and not Calamari.

I swear to God that planes get smaller. My knees were pressing into the seat in front and I was squished up right next to the window as the holiday revellers packed themselves on. I spent three hours, fifteen minutes and twelve seconds  sat in front of  three children who managed to scream and shout Every.Single.Second. of the journey. Even my Sony padded headphones belting out David Guetta, at ear bleeding volume,  could not drown them out. I vowed there and then to save up for the most expensive noise reduction headphones.   I left the plane frazzled but into the warmth of much needed glorious sunshine. 

We made our way to coach 13 to get taken to our holiday apartment.  This too was filling with people.  Behind us sat a lady and her grumpy Father who was  in his seventies.

"Dad, take your sweater off its too hot." She said.

"Oh, go on with you, I'm not stripping on a coach. I shall be the judge of whether I' m too hot or not." He grumbled.

"But Dad, you've got so many layers on you'll be sweating and it's not healthy." The caring daughter protested.

"Oh be done with you! I'm not sweating. I'm not fussed. Stop going on, leave me be woman! And how long do we have to wait on this bus? Could have been to England and back already, it's ridiculous." He chuntered.

" Why are you being so grumpy?" She asked.

" I'm not. It's your fault for going on." He snapped.

I looked at my Mother and said, " You better not get like that or I 'll wrap you in a hundred sweaters on purpose." 

He continued to moan like a miserable old scroat until he was suddenly upstaged by new arrivals to the coach load.

"Presturn! (Preston) Summmaaa!(Summer) Rhiannugh! ( Rhianna) . Gerrron't bloody bus for I batter ya1" Screeched the well composed Mother of three small toddlers. 

Oh deep and rapturous joy. I' m not a snob. I' m not judgemental, I lied to myself.

" Presturn! You little sod, go and pick that dummeh ( dummy) up nah (now). And Summmaaa, stop mitherin' me and sit down. Pack up right nah for I ' effin' knock ya t' other side of this bus! " She bellowed.

"Tch! Damn disgraceful. Not in my day." Said grumpy, sweaty old Dad from behind us.

I felt like I was stuck somewhere between an episode of Shameless and Little Britain. I turned to my Mother who was giggling in her seat.

"Mother." I said as calmly as possible given I was on the verge of suicide. " I do believe I was quite specific on my caveat of peace and quiet and if these people get off at our complex, I'm going home."

Now I usually leave my country somewhat proud and always blow a kiss to it as I make for the aeroplane steps. " See you soon Blighty." I say out loud as I make for pastures new. As the plane takes off I marvel at the beauty of the tapestry fields and vast greenery and truly believe there is no finer place on Earth. And then these kind of people shatter my illusions  and I want to be an American with a hand gun. We fondly refer to them over here as the RAF group. No, not the military version but more  the Rough As Fuck, type. 

"English?" Asked the Greek bus driver as he counted his passengers from hell.

"No. Norwegian." I lied.