Tag Archives: humour

Majorca 2012

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Every exchange I have with people on this holiday makes me feel like I am on holiday in The Twilight Zone. A few examples?

Reporting my bag stolen at the police station and the rather delicious looking cop tells me – in Spanish – that he doesn’t speak English. Fine. In Spanish, he outlines the procedures for making the report and then repeats the exact same words slowly (in Spanish) as if proffering a translation…

Then I asked at Reception for directions to the nearest Western Union outlet. The response was “You know where it is?” I stop myself from giving a sarcastic answer…

At the Western Union outlet, the man tells me – in English – he does not speak English but the guy beside him will translate. He then says – in English – “I must go to the bank and get this money. I will be back in 15 minutes.” Guy beside him looks puzzled but eventually says – in English – “He says he must go to the bank to get the money. He then comes back here [gestures with fingers to show he means this place] in 15 minutes.” He finishes off his slowly delivered ‘translation’ by illustrating 15 minutes with his hands…

 

When you can’t keep pace…

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Well, that was a fun trip. Some a**holes set fire to the tracks which delayed the train. Fine. Had enough time to get home, pick up my car and drive to the dentist. Nope. Because of the delay, Irish Rail decide to terminate the train at Howth Junction. Instead of waiting for the next train, I decide to walk as I’ll miss my appointment otherwise. So I traipse down the steps and out on to road – in heels – followed by three young fellas comparing notes on techniques used by their girlfriends in giving…eh…hand relief. I arrive at my destination with aching feet, a sweat drenched face and none the wiser about the three lads’ experiences as I couldn’t keep up the pace to glean any tips (asking for a friend).

Ah, the little darlings…

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Yesterday’s commute saw a deluge of pre-teens bounce onto the train. While the young gents hung from the loops and swung back and forth, back and forth, the little ladies surrounded me. Intimidating at first, I soon realised it wasn’t me who was holding their fascination. Instead it was my Kindle. One told her entourage that it was like a book while the others looked in awe. Then one exclaimed “Yeah! I know! Me nanny has one of doz.” It was at that moment that my youthful façade vanished and I realised that, damn, I was old enough to be her grandmother.

August 2018

All aboard the London-Dublin Express…

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Overheard after lunch:

Two guys telling all about the two gorgeous American gals they met in London. Oh, how they tried to impress these Dublin lads.

“Yeah. They were f-ing gorgeous. Chatting us up an’ all.”
“Yeah. Told us they were out with some rock stars, had loads to drink…”
“And delighted in telling us they hopped on a train to Dublin to have more drinks at Bono’s hotel, The Clarence.”
“And then got the train home again.”
“Yeah. They may have been cute but boy, were they thick as shit not to realise that Ireland is an island!”

September 2016

Cooking for the Unreasonable

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“But you’re going on holiday the next day?” came the response when I said having people over to eat was simply impossible. I work full-time and yet, this couple insist on inviting themselves to dinner. I explain that I am simply too stressed and busy getting ready to leave but they are having none of it. “Ah sure, don’t you have to eat anyway…” There’s no arguing with that (even though we would ring for a take-away if simply left alone). In the end, I cave only to hear “Now you better impress us with this dinner.”

I have to admit that when I heard those words, I wanted to use my limited knife skills for something other than culinary pursuits. So, in between packing, cancelling the milk order, newspaper order, washing floors, emptying the fridge, dealing with bin juice, giving keys to neighbours, ironing…I pick a menu and buy food. I need something which takes little preparation, reduces washing up and the leftovers can be frozen. With that, I prepare a pot of chilli which can bubble away while I get on with other tasks at hand. I throw – and I mean t-h-r-o-w – together a Pavlova as I don’t have to watch it and there is rarely any leftovers from that.

And so, they arrive. I transfer chilli, rice, cheese, sour cream into bowls, plonk them down on the table and encourage everyone to dig in. Disappointed faces. “It’s a bit casual…” says she. “I’m not mad about chilli myself…” says he, lip curled as he pushes kidney beans out of the sauce and over to the side of his plate. “Oh and Pavlova…that will see my allergies flare up,” she adds. And then they laugh “Next time, we’ll order in advance” as they proceed to hoover up every morsel of food that is in their vicinity. They guzzle cold beers I offer on top of a couple of bottles of wine. Their contribution to the evening? Their charming wit and repartee… Despite subtle reminders that we need to finish packing and get to the airport by 6am, they won’t be budged. Eventually, as the witching hour approaches, the two waddle off down the drive, mumbling ‘thanks’ and whispering about how grumpy I am…

‘Never again’, I grumble as I finish the final preparations for our trip.

Until the next year. And bang on cue, we are heading off on holidays and the two pipe up to say they are coming to dinner. I repeatedly say ‘No’, ‘It’s not suitable’, ‘Not this year’ but they are heading in our direction. This year, I make even less effort. I roast a chicken, stuffed with lemon wedges, garlic with butter and sea salt spread on the top. I pop in a tray of vegetables to roast. And to make a point that time is precious, I buy a Viennetta ice cream and a container of cheap, commercial, chocolate sauce. The teen is horrified but I figure, if this doesn’t give the hint that time is limited, nothing will.

And so they plonk themselves down at the table and start to graze. The chicken arrives out, crispy and delicious. The vegetables the same and while they complain that there is no gravy, they work like termites through the fare. I take the ice cream block out of the box, in front of them for full affect, and instead of utter disgust, they gasp with childish delight, exclaiming ‘How retro!’ ‘How kitsch!’ They help themselves to big wedges, much to the teen’s annoyance who is left with only a sliver, and happily drown the dessert in chocolate sauce. I watch aghast as they shovel it in, piece after piece, without sparing a thought for anyone else at the table.

They leave at midnight, delighted with themselves. “Best dinner ever”, they declare before waving back a reminder that they’ll see us next year.

A year passes. Pointing out how unsuitable having people for dinner the evening before holidays has fallen on deaf ears. Time for a change of track. Slyly, I book holidays a week early and true to form, the phone rings – same date, same time. But this year an unexpected response. “No, we’re not going on holiday,” I tell them a whopper of a white lie. Stunned silence greets the news. I fumble through the idea of us coming over to them in a week or so and listen as she hastens her retreat from the conversation rather than issue an invitation.

Sigh of relief and a smile to the teen as I relax in the taxi on the way to the airport. I think God will forgive me that little fib…just this once!

[First published on http://www.teenintheattic.com: February 2015]

Why I love Coach Trip!

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Why do I watch ‘Coach Trip’? For the intellectual chat, that’s why!

“Tomorrow we’re going to an island.”
“Oh yeah! I’ve never been to an island.”
“Really? You’ve never been to an island?”
“No! I’m so excited!”
“What do you think Britain is then?”
“Oh…”

[August 2017]

And then there’s this:

The teen thinks I’m mad watching ‘Coach Trip’ but where else would you find such pearls of wisdom as…

“Everywhere’s England with a foreign name.”

“You live in the most southern part of England. D’ya mean Scotland?”

“Mussels are like snot.”

Singing the Belgian National Anthem – “It’s different to the British one.”

“I thought Brussels was the capital of France.”

“A monk is a nun’s brother.”

[January 2014]

Pet Peeves I

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Pet peeves of today’s commute….

  • To the girl who decided to put on her jacket while we were huddled in a tight group and made us all duck to avoid being hit by her flaying arms – that is a no
  • To the woman who tried to shoo away oncoming pedestrians with two hands and a twisted face like they were giant flies – that is a no-no
  • To the animal who let rip as we huddled to cross at the lights – that isn’t a no-no-no. That’s an offense punishable by a proper lambasting if I had figured out your identify.

Spain, June 2017

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Day 1
A long awaited trip back to Murcia. Everything is booked but I’m still nervous. Precise planning does not a smooth trip make – well, if my track record is anything to go by. There has to be some twists, turns and a few characters…

And I’m off…

Erratic drivers. Pedestrians with a death wish. Small children screaming. Sweltering heat. Sweat dripping off me. Clothes stuck to my back. Jumping over small children and avoiding large obstacles as I check in at one Terminal and have to leg it to the other Terminal to depart. Ordering a flat white on route and being told “That’s a small Cappuccino…actually…”

And I’m not even at the Departure Gates…

And I’m there-ish…

So I arrived and headed off site to collect the rental car. Then the mayhem began. Little thanks to ‘Beryl’ who relinquished her title of ‘trusty’ in front of Sat Nav. The minute she was let lose, she was like a little lamb frolicking in a field. She brought me back to the airport and into a section where I needed a ticket to exit. With no ticket, I had to reverse through on-coming cars, crunch over some hidden bollards and exit via a section marked for buses only. I expected to see a stream of blue lights flashing in my wake but not this time.

Out on the motorway, Beryl got bored easily and decided to veer off and take us on a tour of some mighty fine industrial sites. Back on the motorway, she quickly had enough and took me off again – this time for a scenic tour of some lovely lemon groves.

When we eventually arrived, Beryl was not impressed. Obviously she didn’t like what she saw as she tried to convince me to head back in the direction of the airport. She flatly refused to tell me where the hotel was. I switched her off and made my own way there. She can stay switched off until she learns to behave.

I arrived later than planned but found a sun lounger and enjoyed the last few hours of sunlight for the day. Nice dinner. Some gins and now bed beckons.

I also realised why my foot was so ‘ouchy’ when I arrived at the airport. Two of my toes are broken – again. Drumroll please – that means I have now broken a total of 8 toes on the one foot. Go me!

Day 2
Today passed off largely without incident. This is in no small part due to the fact that Beryl has been decommissioned (the technological equivalent of grounding my disoriented sat nav).

Spent most of the day horizontal on a sun lounger popping freckles like a mad aul wan. And while basting myself regularly, have a burn mark across my Celtic pasty face which resembles butterfly mask. Red heads are not built to tan.

I went exploring. Four shoe shops later and nothing. It doesn’t matter how cute the heel, the cut or the colour, this gal doesn’t do sandals of which there was a multitude to choose from.

My evening ended with a performance in the Pharmacy where I requested much needed anti histamine through interpretative dance. And pretty crap I was too. After he loaded the counter with every cough syrup known to man, I’d to rely on Google translate to ease the situation.

But tomorrow’s another day!

Day 3
More sunbathing. It’s a tiring activity but someone has to do it. Swam a bit too. Am beside two beautiful coastlines – one onto the Mediterranean and the other a mineral inlet. Alas, their collective beauty does little to woo me. I simply can’t get past the fact that I loathe sand.

I dragged my crispy body through the heat and propelled myself into my favourite shoe shop. Five minutes, and three pairs of shoes, later, I emerged. One pair is ‘functional’ while the other two are ‘lovely’. ‘Total spend…? €27.45. Yes. You did read that correctly. €27.45 for all three!

Day 4
It’s 26 degrees and cloudy. This means the ‘northern Europeans’ are happily lying out while the fully clothed Spanish look on, mystified, from the Bar.

Not for the first time, a man tries to control his screaming child with a bunch of techniques – which include hissing, clicking his fingers as if it were a dog and reasoning with it as if it were a U.N. official. Get up, you lazy shit. He’s barely one year old and driving the rest of us mental as he cries and cries and cries for a cuddle.

I am badly burnt in some places. In all the places I used the highest factor… At this stage, all I am aiming for is a ‘winter’ tan – neck, face and hands!

Day 5
It’s 26 degrees and raining. Now everyone is in the Bar, fully clothed, staring out, mystified, while dripping sweat from the humidity.

I could go exploring again but I did that yesterday. Drove for miles and miles and miles. No mean feat for a gal who drives an automatic on the left, now driving a stick, on the right, and with broken toes!

I visited the land of shoes (otherwise known as ‘Cartagena’). Resisted going into any shops as they would all be screaming at me to buy them while my suitcase would be roaring back “I. Don’t. Think. So!” Instead I sat on a pretty square drinking a large coffee and a water and, with parking, still got change from a fiver!

Today, those around me would not suspect…I have a swimsuit under this dress. I am a Super Hero waiting to break free! If the rain holds off, I will be sitting on that lounger reading and snoring. Better that than drowning in my own sweat from all the humidity. After all, I am a fearless bastard!

Day 5
Last night. Five nights and six days is the absolute max I can tolerate my own company. It’s been swell though. Lots of reading, good food and yummy alcohol. I’m now watching Sarah Jessica Parker and Kathy Bates on the telly box – fierce good at the Spanish so they are. I opted for the Spanish channels after enduring the only English language channel which ran a (very lengthy) documentary on the price of Spam in South Korea…

I am lying here coated head to toe in a gorgeous concoction of aloe vera and after sun because I so don’t want to feel the burn. I’m tomato red. I used a new suntan lotion and report that it was not a success. I reckon slathering myself in beef dripping would have provided more protection. Awful stuff!

I will miss lazing by the pool. I will not miss the chorus of voices calling “Meeeeeee – qweeeeeeeelllll” as the toddler with the face of an aul fella legs it here, there and everywhere!

Day 6
Heading towards the airport now and as the song goes – ‘back to life, back to reality’…

And what did I learn on this holiday?

– when a small toddler called ‘Meeeee-gwelllll is joined by a toddler of equal stature and speed called “Maaaaaaan-welllllll”, the fun is over

– it doesn’t matter how much care I take, I still burn like the red head I am

– Larios gin is one step up from drinking nail varnish remover

– many men of varying ages, and degrees of wrinkling, are way too happy encasing their meagre offerings in a pair of Speedos

– the Spanish moan about humidity the same way the Irish whinge about the weather (including an elderly woman emerging from the lift roaring “Oh my God, Oh my God! The humidity! The humidity!” before collapsing into the arms of her daughter (I suspect she only travelled two floors…)

– far too many young fellas can’t put their arms down straight by their sides due to excessive weight lifting

– sympathizing with me about the state of my face is mistaking hideous sunburn for the effects of humidity

– with my pasty skin, and my ability to tan like a Dalmatian, I will never be mistaken for Spanish or any race living within an ass’s roar of the Mediterranean