If you’ve been trying to phone me this last week, we’ve been away. On holiday. Trevor and me. Abroad. Alicante actually. That’s in Spain. Like I said, abroad.
It was all Trevor’s idea, mind. All a bit sudden too. See, he came home from work one day, three weeks ago Thursday, I think. I could tell he was excited because he did that twiddly thing he does with his moustache. I can always tell.
Anyway, he says to me, all decisive like, “Deidre,” he says, “Deidre, we’re going to try something different this year. Something a bit more exotic.”
Well, I don’t mind saying I was a bit taken aback. I mean, it’s not his birthday ‘til the end of next month. But then he says, “We’re going on holiday. Friday week.”
Oh, now that is a surprise, I thought. Not what I was expecting at all. We don’t usually go away until August. We go to Mrs Simmonds’ bed and breakfast. Up in Rhyll. Nice woman, does a proper breakfast. Lovely sausages. Can’t get them round here, though. Not in Lidl’s anyway. We’ve been going to Mrs Simmonds’ for eight years now. No, I tell a lie, nine years. I remember because that’s when poor old Mr Wharbouys from number 32 died. We couldn’t go to the funeral because we were away. Well, we’d already booked, see?
So I said to Trevor, I said, “Will Mrs Simmonds be alright with us changing the date? It’s all a bit sudden.”
That’s when he told me. He says, “We’re not going to Mrs Simmonds. We’re going to Spain.”
Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I mean, I know he can be a bit rash sometimes. But then his family’s all like that, mind. Headstrong, bit flighty. Especially that sister of his. Running around the estate in that mini car. Bright red it is an’ all.
But Spain! I mean that’s abroad! You’d think he’d have learned after that day trip to Boulogne. Sick as a dog he was on the ferry back. Said it was the rocking of the boat but I thought it was that pork chop he had in that café. Some sort of funny sauce on it. Pimentos. You can never tell with pimentos.
Anyway, turns out that there’s this chap at work who’d booked up to go to Spain. Then his wife ups and runs off with him what does the calling at the bingo on Stratton Road. The one with the wavy blond hair-do. Went off to Cornwall, they did. Or was it Devon? Well, this chap, the one at Trevor’s work, mind, not him from the Lyceum, he couldn’t get his money back. No insurance, see? So Trevor says to him he’ll give him two hundred pounds for it if he can get the names changed. So that’s what they did.
I says to Trevor, “What about that Brexit thing? Is it safe to go? What if they don’t let us in because we’re leaving Europe? They’ve got to be upset. What if they let us in then stop us from coming back? Ransom us to get all that money they say what we owe for being in?”
But Trevor says he’s looked into all that stuff and it should be okay because they’ve put it all off for a bit and we don’t really start being not in ‘till later. Squabbling about a deal or something. That’s what Trevor says, he knows all about that sort of thing. Don’t understand it myself really. And anyway, he said, if they do get a bit funny, we could always say we voted to stay, even though we didn’t really.
So, off we went. It was all very nice in Alicante, but hot, very hot. Had a nice hotel room, on the fourth floor. There was a balcony outside with a sea view. You could just see it if you leant to one side and looked between the two other hotels in front. The bathroom was a bit cramped though. It had got one of those footbath thingies in it. ‘Bee-dette’ was what Trevor called it. I thought it was a good idea for when you’ve been for a paddle on the beach. You know, wash the sand away. I thought maybe we should have them back home but Trevor said we don’t really have the beaches for it.
The food was not too bad neither, as long as you were careful, like. We made sure we stayed away from anything with pimentos in it, though, just in case. There was a nice pool there, but we didn’t like to go in. You never know what’s in the water after everybody’s been in. Could be anything. There were lots of young things around, lounging about in bathing trunks and bikinis. Least they called them bikinis. Looked more like some spare scraps tied up with dental floss. I said to Trevor that some of them were smaller than his handkerchiefs but he said he hadn’t noticed. Everybody was all tanned and they’d all got tattoos, as well. Even the girls. Lots of them had this funny sort of writing on them. Couldn’t tell what it said though. It was all in foreign. Chinese, I think.
Anyway I don’t know why, but I just seemed to get carried away on the last day. I reckon it was that barman, Miguel. Must have put something extra into my Aperol spritzer. Trevor was asleep under one of the big umbrellas so I went outside on my own. There was this little tattoo shop and I don’t know what came over me, but I went and got one done. You could get all sorts. Pirates, daggers, dolphins, anything. I got a tiny butterfly. On my b-o-t-tom. Stung a bit, mind. Trevor hasn’t seen it yet, it was a bit below the knicker line, see? And, like I said, it’s not his birthday ‘til next month.
It was all Trevor’s idea, mind. All a bit sudden too. See, he came home from work one day, three weeks ago Thursday, I think. I could tell he was excited because he did that twiddly thing he does with his moustache. I can always tell.
Anyway, he says to me, all decisive like, “Deidre,” he says, “Deidre, we’re going to try something different this year. Something a bit more exotic.”
Well, I don’t mind saying I was a bit taken aback. I mean, it’s not his birthday ‘til the end of next month. But then he says, “We’re going on holiday. Friday week.”
Oh, now that is a surprise, I thought. Not what I was expecting at all. We don’t usually go away until August. We go to Mrs Simmonds’ bed and breakfast. Up in Rhyll. Nice woman, does a proper breakfast. Lovely sausages. Can’t get them round here, though. Not in Lidl’s anyway. We’ve been going to Mrs Simmonds’ for eight years now. No, I tell a lie, nine years. I remember because that’s when poor old Mr Wharbouys from number 32 died. We couldn’t go to the funeral because we were away. Well, we’d already booked, see?
So I said to Trevor, I said, “Will Mrs Simmonds be alright with us changing the date? It’s all a bit sudden.”
That’s when he told me. He says, “We’re not going to Mrs Simmonds. We’re going to Spain.”
Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I mean, I know he can be a bit rash sometimes. But then his family’s all like that, mind. Headstrong, bit flighty. Especially that sister of his. Running around the estate in that mini car. Bright red it is an’ all.
But Spain! I mean that’s abroad! You’d think he’d have learned after that day trip to Boulogne. Sick as a dog he was on the ferry back. Said it was the rocking of the boat but I thought it was that pork chop he had in that café. Some sort of funny sauce on it. Pimentos. You can never tell with pimentos.
Anyway, turns out that there’s this chap at work who’d booked up to go to Spain. Then his wife ups and runs off with him what does the calling at the bingo on Stratton Road. The one with the wavy blond hair-do. Went off to Cornwall, they did. Or was it Devon? Well, this chap, the one at Trevor’s work, mind, not him from the Lyceum, he couldn’t get his money back. No insurance, see? So Trevor says to him he’ll give him two hundred pounds for it if he can get the names changed. So that’s what they did.
I says to Trevor, “What about that Brexit thing? Is it safe to go? What if they don’t let us in because we’re leaving Europe? They’ve got to be upset. What if they let us in then stop us from coming back? Ransom us to get all that money they say what we owe for being in?”
But Trevor says he’s looked into all that stuff and it should be okay because they’ve put it all off for a bit and we don’t really start being not in ‘till later. Squabbling about a deal or something. That’s what Trevor says, he knows all about that sort of thing. Don’t understand it myself really. And anyway, he said, if they do get a bit funny, we could always say we voted to stay, even though we didn’t really.
So, off we went. It was all very nice in Alicante, but hot, very hot. Had a nice hotel room, on the fourth floor. There was a balcony outside with a sea view. You could just see it if you leant to one side and looked between the two other hotels in front. The bathroom was a bit cramped though. It had got one of those footbath thingies in it. ‘Bee-dette’ was what Trevor called it. I thought it was a good idea for when you’ve been for a paddle on the beach. You know, wash the sand away. I thought maybe we should have them back home but Trevor said we don’t really have the beaches for it.
The food was not too bad neither, as long as you were careful, like. We made sure we stayed away from anything with pimentos in it, though, just in case. There was a nice pool there, but we didn’t like to go in. You never know what’s in the water after everybody’s been in. Could be anything. There were lots of young things around, lounging about in bathing trunks and bikinis. Least they called them bikinis. Looked more like some spare scraps tied up with dental floss. I said to Trevor that some of them were smaller than his handkerchiefs but he said he hadn’t noticed. Everybody was all tanned and they’d all got tattoos, as well. Even the girls. Lots of them had this funny sort of writing on them. Couldn’t tell what it said though. It was all in foreign. Chinese, I think.
Anyway I don’t know why, but I just seemed to get carried away on the last day. I reckon it was that barman, Miguel. Must have put something extra into my Aperol spritzer. Trevor was asleep under one of the big umbrellas so I went outside on my own. There was this little tattoo shop and I don’t know what came over me, but I went and got one done. You could get all sorts. Pirates, daggers, dolphins, anything. I got a tiny butterfly. On my b-o-t-tom. Stung a bit, mind. Trevor hasn’t seen it yet, it was a bit below the knicker line, see? And, like I said, it’s not his birthday ‘til next month.