I am a Duck-Billed Platypus

So what did I do in Turkey, you ask (well, some of you ask).  This might surprise you (some of you) but mainly I swam. 

I’m not one of life’s natural swimmers; I’m one of life’s natural floaters. Okay, so that’s an unfortunate term but hey, there isn’t really an alternative. I like to float, shall we say?  I love water but tend to bob around on top of it, gently swayed this way and that as the current wishes.  Or slowly revolve in circles, like Eeyore.  I like the feeling of being supported by water.  I rather like the passivity of it too.  I’m generally a pretty active person so the whole surrendering aspect of floating has always struck me as quite balancing somehow. 

James, however, wasn’t impressed.  ‘You’re  just a rubbish swimmer,’ he said with that careless scorn of the young. Then, catching the look on my face. ‘Sorry, that sounded awful.’ Patting me in an almost avuncular fashion on the shoulder. ‘But you really should learn how to swim properly.’  In other words, not thrashing my head from side to side as I progress painfully through the water.  Then he threw down the challenge.

‘I’ll teach you if you like.’

Shit.  Trapped. I have promised myself I won’t let fear get in the way of stuff anymore. ‘Okaaaay.’

So there we were in the pool.  Early, before the Russians ploughed in to play extreme water polo or turning themselves into human pyramids (they liked this game and once got to three levels before collapsing and nearly concussing the newly-weds who were snogging in blissful unawareness nearby). 

‘First step is putting your head under the water,’ said James.

‘Aagh,’ said I. ‘That’s scary.’
He fixed me with a beady look and showed me what to do.  I gulped but obeyed and, hey, it was okay, it really was.  And after that it was all just so easy. Why on earth (or should that be 'in water'?) had I waited so long?  After he was satisfied I could do lengths of crawl and breast-stroke, he got me diving.  Not just off the edge (though that was fun) but sinking down to the bottom of the pool so we sat like a pair of Buddhas, grinning benignly at one another.

I was feeling pretty smug but he wasn’t finished with me. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Time for snorkelling.’ After a quick practice session in the pool, we were off to the sea and bobbing gently in the Aegean… Oh my! Oh wow! How amazing to reverse one’s world.  To look down instead of up.  To see the sea as part of it, inside it.  Who knew the fish came so close to shore?  And, just like that, I lost my fear of the sea and its creatures.  Ever since a cod sucked my toe in the US (it did, it really did), I’ve been scared stiff of swimming in the sea.  But when you can see everything…when you become part of a world, instead of alien, there’s nothing to fear.  Okay, smart-arses, the odd rogue shark, I suppose. 

‘Do I still swim like Asbo?’ I asked at the end of the week, by which time the boy was so brown I barely recognised him, while I had simply sprouted freckles on my freckles.  He screwed up his face in concentration. ‘No.’ 

I smiled.  ‘So, what am I?’ Thinking sleek sea-otter or whip-like piranha.

‘Umm, you’re more of a platypus.’

What??

‘No, no…’ he said with that soothing shoulder pat again.  ‘Don’t be offended. Duck-billed platypuses are excellent swimmers.’

‘They are?’  Mollified.   

‘They also emit a low growl when disturbed,’ he added, raising an eyebrow.  ‘And store fat reserves in their tails.’

Let it also be noted that they can also move extremely fast when provoked.    :)

Going, going, gone...

So.  Can’t quite believe we’re actually going off on holiday.  In an hour. A proper family holiday. A package holiday, for pity’s sake, in a proper hotel.  Well…it looks okay from the pictures on the web but those are probably twenty years old. Or photo-shopped.

Anyhow. Whatever. Who cares?  I have just packed the following:

·         Swimsuits (James informs me that I swim like Asbo and so he is going to teach me to swim ‘properly’. ‘Like an otter, Mum.’  An otter?  Fair enough.  Without the fish breath, I hope.
·         Gym kit. Yes, there’s a gym at the hotel.  If it gets too hot outside I can just turn my usual routine around and go sit on an exercise bike to cool down. Sensible, huh?
·         Kindle (loaded and dangerous) plus three paper books.  The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoot (have saved this for positively aeons - it had better deliver); The Neurotourist (seemed suitable); The Dervish House (cos one needs a bit of frolic, right?).
·         iPod. With meditations from the divine Barbara Ford-Hammond.  I am still waiting to discover my past lives and my future lives because every time I listen to them, I fall asleep.  Maybe I just don’t have any?  No past, no future – just right now eh?  Music?  The usual suspects - though it really riles me that some people don’t put stuff out there for download. *grr*
·         Tarot pack and pendulum.  Viv convinced me this combo would work well and I think she’s right. The runes are too chilly and the I Ching is too heavy. I can also use the pendulum to dowse food for dodgy bacteria and to freak traders out while haggling. 
·         Sunbelievable "self-tan".  Self-tan?  Fake tan, FAKE tan. May be fake but is good.
·         Notebooks. Moleskines. Two
·         DermaquestSkin Therapy – advanced B5 serum. Have been road-testing this and it’s good stuff.  Light and non-sticky for hot places too…(as in hot countries, not hot bits of body…doh!). 
·         My IRISH BUSH beach bag from Israel (thanks, Baram!).  Totally recycled. Makes me laugh.
·         A slinky black maxi-dress.  NO idea why I bought this as I will most likely never wear it. But I like the idea of it.
·         Cut-off jean shorts.  Many black tops.  Assorted underwear.  Reebok fitflops.
·         Sunglasses.  Ray-bans bought in Miami airport twenty years ago.
·         AromatherapyAssociates diffuser and Relax oil. I know it’s weird but hotel rooms often smell funny.  And yeah, smart-asses, I've got an adaptor..
·         Hats.  Trusty white cowboy job plus my Dead Sea peaked cap.
·         Much sunscreen.

Sorted.  Have I forgotten anything?  Probably.  Notice anything missing from that list?  Yeah, I'm not taking my laptop. James says I'm 'addicted' and I fear he may be right.  So, with a deep gulp, I am leaving it behind.  I shall miss you all...and will look forward to hearing your tales (of mad Ulysses?) when I return.. Happy hunting, brigands... :)

Oh, Asbo and the SP?  They're sorted too.. our dogsitters have landed and we have already been forgotten... :)

Booking holidays is easy - once you decide where to go

We’re going on holiday. Official. After weeks of rows and dark silences we finally agreed that the mid-point between Egypt and Belgium lies in Turkey. So yesterday, after Adrian headed off to the Great British Beer Festival (work, hard work, you know) and I dropped James off to stay with a friend, I marched into the travel agents. Listened to a couple discuss their requirements at huge length for a hugely long period of time. In fact, wrote a feature in the time it took them to decide that, no, Grand Bahama wasn’t quite right for their requirements. Ye Gods. Eventually they left with a swathe of brochures and I slid into the rather overwarm seat the chap had vacated.

‘Can I help you,’ said "Alison" (she had a badge). I could feel the deep soul weariness coming off her in waves but, bless her heart, she had a brave sweet smile.

‘I’m sure you can,’ I said brightly. ‘Package for three for a week, best deal you’ve got.’

‘Leaving?’

‘Friday. Or, at latest, Monday.’

'Crikey. Um, okay.’

She pulled up some details. ‘Um, there’s something to Turkey..’

‘Turkey’s fine.’
She looked suspicious. Read off a few details.
‘That sounds fine,’ I said.
Looked really suspicious. Like nothing in her life is ever that easy.
‘Honestly. As long as it’s got a pool and a beach and isn’t rat infested, it’s fine,’ I reassured her.
‘Well. But hang on…’
Her professional pride was piqued now. She clicked a few more times. ‘Wow. That’s a good deal. It’s all-inclusive, right by the beach…’

I peered over her shoulder. Saw the magic word ‘spa’. ‘Fabulous. We’ll take it.’
‘But, but….’
Bless her, she pointed out all the disadvantages.
Like we’d be sharing a room (no, not with a family of five from Birmingham, you daft numpties). Like the spa was probably a manky sauna and an ancient masseuse with arthritic fingers.
Like the beach wasn’t pure white sand but fine dust-coloured shingle.

‘Honestly, it’s fine,’ I reassured her. ‘It’s great. I like dust-coloured.’

‘The food and drink service isn’t 24-hour,’ she said, desperately.

‘Er, that’s fine. We won’t want to eat 24-hours a day.’
‘Some people don’t like that.’
I bet.
‘Right, let’s book this, huh?’ I laid our passports in front of her and plonked my credit card firmly on top.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. Let’s just get this done and, er, dusted.’

So, there we have it. We’re heading off on Monday. Since then Alison, bless her, has rung me three times to point out small details I may have overlooked. I think we’re becoming new best friends. Actually I think she’s still deeply perplexed that anyone can book a holiday in five minutes.

Of course, this may backfire horribly. I haven’t done this kind of package holiday since I was ten. But, hey ho, it will be an experience.

Now then. Promo time. I have ten ton of sun-cream and my trusty Sun Believable self-tan (seriously, this stuff is good, really good). I also have nice new non-sweaty Sea-Bands.

You know these? They’re acupressure bands – like mini-sweat-bands with a pressure stud sewn inside that, if you position it correctly (it’s not hard) presses the Nei-Kuan acupressure point (which relieves nausea and vomiting). Our chemist recommended them when James was getting seriously carsick a few years back and, by heck, they work a treat on him. Research has generally been into their uses post-operatively but, for me, the proof of the pudding was in the not throwing up of said pudding. I get a bit travelsick in the back of a car or on buses, so figure I’ll play safe and take a set for myself too.

My only quibble is aesthetic. The colour choices are pretty glum. Adult ones come in Atlantic Ocean grey. Children’s come in faded pink, faded blue etc. C’mon Sea-Bands, jazz ‘em up a bit. Get funky – chic black (or skull-encrusted for a Goth vibe?); fluoro with daisies for the festival crowd; rainbows; kittens; chic stripes….use your imaginations!

Anyhow, Sea-Bands got in touch, I said I was already a fan and, lo and behold, I have a few spare pairs to give away…mainly children’s but think there’s an adult pair left too. If you’d like ‘em, let me know (no need for your own personal vomiting stories – we will use the trusty sunhat from Israel to pick the winners). 

I'm Patton

I am going demented.  There's a deep aura of negativity permeating the Bonkers House which is sucking out every last quark of joy.  I feel like I’m swimming through Bostik.  Trying to work; trying to keep everyone happy; trying not to scream.

‘Are we going on holiday?’ asked James. 
‘Yes,’ I said firmly, trying to convince myself as much as him.  In a moment of extreme rashness a few weeks back I had given him a solemn promise that we would have a holiday this summer, we really truly would.
‘Not a staying at home holiday, with walks and the odd picnic,’ he said, suspiciously.  My son, knowing all too well the importance of precision when it comes to promises. 
'A proper holiday,’ he insisted.
I asked what, for him, this entailed – precisely - and he thought long and hard.

‘A pool.  Swimming in the pool.’
My eyes must have brightened because he said quickly.  ‘No, not Tiverton pool. Abroad. Somewhere warm.’
‘So we could go anywhere, if it’s warm?’
‘Well, I’d like to see the odd bit of…I dunno…buildings or something.’
‘Culture?’
‘Yeah.  But not too much.’

So I had a look online and did a good impression of a plumber sucking his teeth.  How much???  My accountant is going to be unhappy enough as it is but no need to give the poor chap a hernia.  So I cut out all the usual suspects and looked at places that might be considered generally less desirable on account of extreme heat or unstable political situations. 
Adrian peered over my shoulder and looked like he was chewing asafetida.
‘Of course, you don’t have to come,’ I said. ‘You could stay and work.’    Expecting a swift rebuttal.
‘I suppose you could be right,’ he said slowly.  ‘I have got to finish this book.’
‘What?’  James was incandescent.  ‘Just for once, can’t we be a normal family and have a normal family holiday?  I want us to go to Turkey.  Or Greece. Or Portugal.  Not Syria or Afghanistan or Belgium or the Czech Republic. And all of us.’

I sighed. Adrian looked miserable.  I knew he was thinking about deadlines, about irate publishers…
‘Look…about this book,’ I said, offering a deal.  He looked suspicious, then hopeful, then grinned.
‘You’re like the American Fifth Army,’ he said. 
My, my, I'm worthy of a WWII reference?  He must be impressed. 
‘You’re Patton!’ he continued, a rare smile breaking out over his face.  Steady…

But, hey….Patton eh?  If that’s the case I get to give rousing speeches, right?  So, I say “bollocks” to negativity; to this “can’t do” attitude.  I stand up firm and stout and say to all of you who are feeling downtrodden and despairing:
“We are not going to dig foxholes!  We are not going to just shoot the sons-of-bitches, we’re going to rip out their living Goddamned guts and use them to grease the tyres of our tanks. 
We are going to advance and to keep on advancing regardless of whether we have to go over, under, or through the enemy. We are going to go through him like crap through a goose; like shit through a tin horn!  That is all. ” 

Okay?  So.  Right then.  Any ideas, men?  Where can I find a cheap as chips yet not too ghastly holiday, abroad, with water…for a weary general and her troops?