Hymn

In Sheep's Clothing

Little S loves all God's Creatures.  Frequently our walks stop so that she can point out an ant and attempt to kiss it.  It is a habit she repeats for just about any living thing that breathes.

Still, she has her favourites: animals whose sound she can mimic are the best.  So a trip to the petting farm seemed such a good idea. 

She clucked at the hens, moo-ed at the cows, oinked at the pigs and beeped at the geese.  She was a bit baffled by the rabbits, but then so am I when it comes to establishing a suitable sound for them.  We settled on "Hop Hop" which I'm sure will cause her all sorts of linguistic confusion when she discovers the laws of grammar.

The highlight of the trip was to feed the lambs.  Lovely little lambs.  Gentle little lambs.  Or Woolly Maniacs as I think they should be more accurately named.  It was a bit of shock.

I had noticed how frisky the flock became as we assembled around the pens.  And how the lambs started to baa loudly as we sat on the hay bales and the farm hands gave us feeding bottles of warm milk.  I wondered if they knew what was coming.  They almost certainly had a better idea than us.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"  asked T as I cradled S on my lap trying to wrest the milk bottle from her lips.

'Don't worry,' I replied, 'What possible risk could there be?'

Now I've never sat beneath a dam before it's burst, opened the doors on the first day of the Christmas Sales at Next or been tied to a post and offered as a sacrificial virgin to a rabid horde of cannibals but I believe the next few minutes gave me an insight into those experiences.

The lambs exploded out of their pens.

We sat half way down the barn.  Pity the poor folk closest to the gate.  They disappeared under an avalanche of wool.

Dimly, I heard T scream.  I, of course, kept calm.  Or was paralysed by fear, depending on your perspective.

The first lamb to reach us tore the bottle from S's hands.  Foolishly, I tried to hold on to mine.  Three or four of the blighters tried to drag me to the ground.  I held S above the melee with one hand and fought the wild animals with the other.  They jumped, I ducked; they kicked, I parried; they butted, I winced; they bleated, I whimpered.  They were too strong.  I couldn't keep hold of both.  I let go.

The baby sheep tumbled away like a cloud in a gale.

"They're just playing." laughed the farmer from the safety of his tractor cab.

T stood shaking behind a low wall of hay.  She plucked S from me.  I smiled weakly.

Really, these animals should have a health warning on them.  Or mint sauce.

Life's a Beach

Of course some things never change.  We are on holiday.  At the seaside.  And we will enjoy it. Because we are at the seaside.  On holiday.

And so we maintained the great British tradition of sitting on the beach regardless of the weather.  Freezing our nuts off and having a splendid time.  I marched determinedly up and down the shore, combing.  T & S sat huddled by a sand dune seeking shelter, watching bemused.  My mother paddled in the icy North Sea.  But then she is as mad as a hatter.

We would have had an ice cream if only they could have driven the van through the snow.

Trailer Park

We came here when I was eight, apparently.  I don’t remember much about it although there’s a rumour I won a talent show by singing the chorus of ‘Morning Has Broken’ twice while wearing a zip-up sky blue tracksuit.  Still, those sorts of competitions were easier in the 1860’s.  It was really only a choice between me and the Bearded Lady.

We’d returned for a cheap break.  It was the same reason we pulled up in Hillman Avenger all those years ago. For a family holiday in the 70s, the camp site had been regarded as a Pretty Good Thing.  For poor folk like us, the static caravans felt quite sophisticated, refined even.  Besides, it was a holiday at the seaside.  A holiday.  At the seaside.  It was always going to be great to an eight year old.

I suspect it hadn’t changed in those thirty years.  Of course, we had.  The Entertainment Complex didn’t seem any more elaborate: despite its rebranding it remained a squalid bar in the middle of a slot machine maze.  From Opening to Closing people with nothing better to do fed fistfuls of copper coins into avalanche games and trifling one-arm bandits.  Winning simply lengthened their stay.

Now, as then, our fellow holidaymakers, drove beat-up cars and bulged over their waistbands.

I looked at our old salon, with its dented wing, and my own extra pounds and my handful of pennies and realised I hadn't changed that much after all.

Taxi Free

And so our final journey begins.  We have an hour’s internal flight, a ninety minute pause at the international airport and then forty-one thousand seconds winging our way across the Atlantic ocean.  Through the night.  It’s an attractive proposition by anyone’s standards.  But first  we need to get to the airport.

It’s too far to walk, damn it.  For our different reasons, we stand in mortal fear of the journey.  I’ve not known this much trepidation since I first faced a firing squad or that Barbers’ Quartet of angry Chinese laundry men.

We sat in silence as the cab belted along deserted highways, jungle tracks and cobbled streets.  For much of the time apparently on just one or two wheels.  My mother and T huddled, heads bowed, eyes shut and hands clenched.  S waved gaily out of the window.  I threw breadcrumbs down periodically as a sure-fire way of finding retracing our steps.

We burst through a bush and skid to halt outside Departures.

We retrieve our luggage.

I look at the driver.  I look at my family.

Stabbing wildly at the notice in hieroglyphics, I shout something incomprehensible in Mandarin, or it might have been Amharic.  I wave my arms and skip a little.  I shake my head and make squawking noises.  And hand him three times the amount displayed on his digital meter.  Fuck it, we’re leaving.

He is dumbfounded. 

I smile at T and my mum.  They smile back.  S waves goodbye. 

We catch our plane home.

Beach Bum

I had a mental image of this place before coming here.  Quite a clear mental image actually.  Perhaps a little too clear, too formed, if I’m honest.  A little too wistful even; much too desirous for one who’s genuinely satisfied: one who might look but isn’t looking.

Because this place has a reputation.  In fact it has a number of reputations but this particular reputation is built around an industry so vast it is almost the lifestyle. It manifests itself in an eponymous style of pubic topiary.  And provides as many buttock implants as boob jobs.  Some of this is obvious.  Some of it isn’t.  Thankfully. 

And here we are on one of the most famous beaches on the planet, populated by some of the most consciously stuffed swimwear in the world.  It is the catwalk of ostentatiously flamboyant and brazen beauties.  In short, it is a compulsive ogler’s worse nightmare.

It is true: I’ve never seen quite so many spankable bottoms in one place before.  You could almost see cheeky hand marks on some of them and, I can’t be sure but, I thought my own palm tingled expectantly few times.  And let’s face it, there wasn’t much to hide this taut flesh.  Surely it’s an exaggeration to describe some of these garments as clothing.  Isn’t there  a trade-description act that covers this sort of thing?  I’ve seen dental floss that’s more robust some of these briefs. 

You have to admire their determination though.  I mean, this is costly showing-off.  If there’s one thing my short-lived tightrope walking career taught me, it’s that sitting on stretched string isn’t much fun.   And while I appreciate that this sort of thing is a real stimulant for some, I’m much too attached to my sensibilities to risk having them garrotted.  Especially with this sunburn.

But some people take it just too far:  just as some false boobies can prove ridiculous, so fake arses be overly pert and plump.  Really, some of these girls (and a surprising number of men) aren’t fooling anyone.

And yet for all the effort of the expensively statuesque figures, no one really paid them any attention (pathetic visitors like me aside).  On the contrary, this was a place, unique in a country of obscene economic discrepancies, where everyone was equal.  The obviously wealthy, the clearly poor, the polished and the rough - this beach had no barriers.  In fact, most people here were reassuringly normal.  Lumpy, bumpy, saggy or flat just like you and me.  Well, me anyway.  All united in a slightly unnerving attachment to teeny-weeny swimsuits.  It felt strangely heartening.   

For a moment, I longed for my old Speedos.  As a sign of solidarity.  Mercifully the moment passed quite quickly, although I did roll up my trouser legs one more turn.

Gringo

Now, I’m a man that likes to blend in.  Never one to draw attention to myself. ‘Chameleon-like’ some might say.  A master of disguise.  I daresay my ability to be inconspicuous is legendary in certain quarters.  How else could you explain those years of hiding in that Negro gospel choir?

Duly warned by our ‘guides’ and ever mindful of our personal safety, I led our intrepid family on to the beach today, secure in the knowledge that with my sunburn and safari hat, I would be indistinguishable from a lifelong resident of the city.  Or a hobbo. 

I’ve never lived anywhere near the coast so any sight of the sea is a thrill.  I suspect there’s a bit of the Old Sea Dog in me.  At least that would explain the effect I have on German Shepherds.  I can’t stop myself from dabbling in the water whenever I’m close enough.  There’s something quite magical about all that lapping around the water’s edge.  And that has nothing to do with those amorous Alsatians.  Today was one of those shoreline times.

Ah, the simple joy of paddling.  I had gone to a depth that I considered appropriately cool and sophisticated for the location: the waves gently splashing below the knee; a comfortable couple of inches below my rolled up trouser legs.  Ah, what a vision of elegance, I must have been.

It lasted some twelve seconds.  Within moments of taking my regal stand I was utterly soaked by a freak wave.  I raised myself with the decorum expected of an Englishman abroad.  I coughed.  I spluttered.  I cursed. I cleared my eyes of stinging brine by rubbing them with SPF120 lotion-covered hands rendering myself temporarily blind. I launched myself with reckless abandon into the surf to retrieve my wayward hat as it threaten to float away.  I scrabbled wildly for some means of support but the water proved ill-suited as a prop.  I slapped at it uselessly as I struggled to my feet.  I gulped for air.

A second wave knocked me back on my arse.

Thankfully, the saltwater-sun cream-cheap canvas combination created a chemical bond that secured my hat to my head.  That baby wasn’t going anywhere this time.   I spat a fountain back at the ocean.

As I sat pathetically in the receding waters, I felt three or four tiny pairs of hands grab my arms.  The owners, a clutch of small boys, were laughing uncontrollably. 

‘Gringo!  Gringo!  Gringo!’  they squealed between hoots.

“Gringo”? But how could they tell?  What powers of perception!  It was uncanny.  I tried to ask “How?” but the giggling had rendered them incoherent. All they could say was  ‘Funny man.  Do again.  Do again.’

Dinner Service

A miracle.  It’s a miracle, I tell you.  Actually, no.  It’s not a miracle, more a Godsend.  I think that’s right.  It’s always difficult to quantify a faith position.  All of a sudden my theological understand seems wanting.  I’m tempted to spend some time with trainee nuns in the local seminary but after they took advantage of me so outrageously last time, I’m a little hesitant.

Maybe, it was just angels.  That’s more like it.  Angels.

For the length of this holiday, we’ve not a had relaxed meal together.  We’ve either had Scarlett on our knee or thrashing in a high chair, or one of us has been watching her sleep.  Food never tastes good in such circumstances.

Tonight something amazing happened.  Angels, I tell you.

We’ve grown used to random strangers accosting us in the streets.  Wanting to touch our blond haired, blue-eyed baby.  It’s quite flattering.  Having narrowly missed out on being accepted as a member of the Jackson 5  and Take That, I don’t have much experience of being surrounded by crowds of adoring girls so I was happy to make the most of it.  It wasn’t just girls though, a fair number of boys wanted a stroke too.  I suspect it’s exactly the same in a boy band.  In the end, after so much attention, S almost looked polished.

Inevitably we were the first in the hotel restaurant.  There as soon as the doors opened.  Our pitiful solution for eating together.  At least we had the choice of tables.  As we sat down the most amazing thing happened.  The waiter came and took S from us.  Picked her up and hoisted her away.  Our flirty little girl squealed with delight.  He waltzed her around the room.  He took our order, babe still in arms.  He whisked her into the kitchen.  Through the portal we watched her pass from chef to chef.  I hoped there hadn’t been some terrible misunderstanding about our hors d’oeuvres.

She emerged in the arms of the receptionist.  And stayed wonderfully and willingly entertained with adoring attention, for the duration of a four course meal and a couple of beers.  I could have wept. 

The entire staff came out to say goodnight to her.

I don’t want to push our luck but I’m pretty sure we know where tomorrow’s dinner will come from.

Hysteria

We’re being chaperoned to our final destination.  I mean, really, what are they suggesting?  Can’t we look after ourselves?

And these guides are something else.  They are the most amazing advertisements.  For not coming here.  They’re not exactly selling the place to us.  It is absolutely ridiculous.  I wonder if they are actually employed by some neighbouring destination for the sole purpose of discouraging visitors here.

‘Don’t carry a camera.
‘Don’t carry a bag.
‘Don’t take a purse or wallet of any kind.
‘Only take small change with you.
‘But make sure to have something to give a mugger.
‘Don’t make yourself conspicuous.
‘Don’t leave the main streets.
‘Don’t go out in a big group.
‘Don’t go out alone.
‘Don’t go out after dark.
‘Don’t go out.’

They paused.

‘You’ll be cheated.
‘You’ll be robbed.
‘You’ll be mugged, rogered, wrapped in marizpan.  They’ll take your shoes, your bank details and your silk knickers.  You’ll end up cold, stiff and covered in goosefat.  Say goodbye to your children now.  They will show you no mercy.
‘Don’t go outside.  Don’t do out.  Don’t do it.  We’re all doomed.  Doomed, doomed, doomed, I tell you.’

He ran screaming off the balcony just for effect.

His colleague cleared her throat. 

‘Right then.  We’ll pick you all up at 9 for our tour of the city.  Have a good night.’

I heard someone at the back weeping.

Maid for Each Other

So, today’s The Day.  The reason for the trip - The Wedding. 

I’m reunited with family members I haven’t seen for more than twenty years.  They are instantly recognisable.  I hope I’m not.  I hope I’ve changed.  I’ve certainly gained height, weight and responsibilities.  I’ve lost hair and some paralysing self-consciousness in exchange.  I’m much happier here now than there then.

I had a role today.  A small part in the proceedings.  I was a Groomsman.  Initially I was worried that it had something to do with horses.  Thankfully, it was entirely ceremonial and had no function whatsoever.  And there wasn’t a pony in sight.  As far as I could tell all I had to do was wear a woollen three piece suite in sweltering temperatures and walk down the aisle with one of the bridesmaids.  It didn’t sound too hard: I can sweat as well as the next man and I can’t imagine struggling to promenade with an Amazonian Beauty on my arm.  I hadn’t met any of other attendants before today but as I scanned the girls wearing turquoise, my spirits rose.  They were gorgeous.  Glowing in the way that only lithe nineteen year olds can.  I rubbed my hands.  I also rubbed my shin - a sharp kick suggested that T wasn’t overly impressed by my obvious glee.

Still, I wasn’t prepared to spoil the day for the Bride and Groom, so I selflessly concentrated on looking as comfortable and happy as possible to be surrounded by such delightful and charming company.  I was prepared to make sacrifices to ensure that these delicious girls felt completely relaxed and in good spirits.  That just the kind of guy I am: it’s all give, give, give.  I was, however, developing quite a limp from the ongoing booting. But, in spite of the distractions, I struggled on bravely.

I hobbled over to the groom.
“So,” I asked a little too eagerly, “which one’s mine?”
‘Ah, she’s not here yet’ he replied apologetically. 
“Saving the best ‘til last, eh?”
‘Yes, something like that.’
“You didn’t want her overwhelmed by her dashing companion for the day, eh?”
‘Erm, overwhelmed, yes. Something like that’
“She’s only human.” I offered “Confronted with a fine figure of man like me, you’ve got to expect a little wobble.  Don’t worry - I know just how to handle the situation.”

I wiped my sweaty bald head and placed a wet hand warmly on his shoulder.

“You can trust me.”

He said something a little too quietly for me to catch and then:
‘Look, I need to finish off a couple of things.  You’ll be okay won’t you?’
“Of course.  Don’t worry about me.  Just one thing: how will I recognise her?”

He started moving away as he spoke.

‘She’s a lovely girl.  She’s a cousin, you see.  You won’t have any problem picking her out.  She’s quite tall.  And, erm, she’s just left a religious cult.’
“I’m sorry.  What?”

He’d gone.

What could he mean?

Then I knew.

Across the venue I saw human giraffe curl under one of the ceremonial arches.  Once inside, like ET, she extended her not inconsiderable neck to view the crowd - a completely unnecessary act given she was already some two foot taller then anyone else in the party.  She was completely bald.  I couldn’t see any ritualistic markings but there was definitely no hair to hide them under.  She swung her shaven head from side to side scanning the crowd like an enormous plucked chicken.  There was a wild look in her eye.  She was looking for me.  I felt the strength ebb from my knees.

I looked round for somewhere to hide.  I turned right into T.  She was blocking my path.  And smiling.

Super Market

Following traffic signs to locate a supermarket isn’t necessarily a good idea.  Especially if you’re on foot.

“It’s just three blocks away” the receptionist had said “in a straight line.”

Being a simple lad, I thought she meant it was three blocks away.  In a straight line that one could travel.  I hadn’t appreciated that she’s been talking as the crow flies  and had a penchant for trigonometry.  I also wonder if she wasn’t giving directions from a different starting point. 

After ten blocks, I began to get suspicious, but being stubborn as well as stupid, I strode on.  I wasn’t disappointed.  I saw a sign.  Quite clear.  Quite clearly directing me into a run down residential area.  Quite clearly not on the Tourist Trail.  Thankfully I had my new hat on, so I blended right in.

I paced out an intricate Inca design on a grand scale as I paced the streets over the next hour, faithfully following the signs.  The one way system here really is something to behold.  I crossed the ‘Straight Line’ three times as I looped around some of the less well known neighbourhoods of the city.  It was like following a Search and Rescue pattern for a lost ship in a vast ocean.  The fourth time I passed the same bunch of street kids, they began to look at me suspiciously.  They playfully tapped their oil drum seats with sticks and threw stones at my shadow.  Young rascals. 

Spurred on by their high spirits, I jogged the remaining couple of miles to the fabled store.  I could see my hotel from its entrance.  It was probably eight hundred metres away, albeit the other side of a couple of anonymous buildings.  I’d spent the best part of an hour and a half getting here. 

But it was worth it.  I’d only come to replenish our baby milk water supplies but I was in for a treat.  This was a shop designed by a man for a man.  None of your crude Western shopping seduction techniques of fresh fruit and veg, newly baked bread and suggested wines to accompany fish, this store was organised along a stream of consciousness.  In the promotional spots in front of the cash tills were, in order, the following items:  beer, car tyres, bras, folding steps and socks.  Brilliant.

I considered building a cart out of the tyres and steps to carry the bottle water back to the hotel but realised that there probably wasn’t enough room left in my hand luggage for the four Dunlop Radials.  Damn it.

I drank some beer, but a bra on my head and started rolling the fifty gallon barrel of Evian home.  This is what holidays are all about.