Ka and myself are lying across our couches. Ka sipping 5.5% rose wine that I bought her in Asda the other day (obviously unaware that it was 5.5% and gaining some ear ache on my return home) and me supping some Kronenbourg lager and generally having a lazy Saturday night after the fun and shenanigans of last night’s charity race night (wonderful word, shenanigans…)
The Raploch Bowling Club sprung to life last night much to the disapproval of the regulars. The bar staff were miserable and, from the impression I got, highly suspicious of us strangers, and the drinking regulars disturbed by our presence, an old man with a walking stick particularly unhappy to see us, growling at us as he tried to get through to the bar. The gathered crowd didn’t let that get to them though.
The various staff members from Ka’s work, the Early Learning Unit, the various parents of kids at the ELU and a fairly large portion of family and friends assembled soon got the race night started as ever under the guidance of Kay (spelling?) and Fiona, the husband and wife team that make up the backbone of the ELU’s successful charity bashes. Ka and myself have been particularly touched by the support of the ELU with this charity night as the cause was inspired by our wee Lucy Reid, not to mention all the other babies that pass through Wishaw Hospital’s Neonatal ward’s doors.
Upon arrival at the bowling club, secreted away like a green batcave behind some worn out billboards, Fiona and Kay immediately volunteered me as a jockey for one of the horses. I opted immediately for the first race, believing it to be better to get it over and done with. The first few races were South Park themed making each of the ‘horses’ characters from the seemingly forever popular American cartoon, so, in memory of my brother, I went for Kenny.
Not that Kenny’s dead. He’s just in Australia. Exploring, seeing a bit of the world, travelling another continent and getting dogs impounded.
Anyway, like Kenny’s dog, I wasn’t going anywhere fast. My racing wrists failed me three quarters of the way through my lap. Ka’s bro, Colin, would have won the race if he had not decided to give his horse/character one final, illegal tug of the cord over the line. Kay immediately disqualified him thus making the dark horse of the race, George, the jockey to my right, the victor. Colin was raging, but only at himself, either for performing the illegal manoeuvre in the first place or being spotted by the adjudicator carrying it out. My guess is the second.
Even though I had even odds at the beginning of the race, I ended up third, or was it fourth? I’m not sure now but I was fairly average anyway, ensuring more than a few folk lost their money. It’s all for a good cause though so I didn’t mind.
Roslyn did, mind you. She scowled at me for around two hours afterwards. Her other half, Iain, won a race an hour or so afterwards in the night though so she lightened up later. Or maybe that was just the alcohol?
As I retreated back to our tables with shaking wrists, disappointed and a little downtrodden, the races went on. Ka continued organising the buffet in the kitchen area, the ELU girls sold out of raffle tickets, Kay continued shouting at folk and Angela and Unlce John nicked Auntie Lorna’s caramel shortcake from it’s tin foil cloaked, secret location in the backroom corridor.
With a little help from the two Mum’s, Ka cooked up a cracking buffet and after the ELU staff members all helped bring through and set up, the gathered crowd of betters and racers demolished it, sandwiches, chicken legs, pizza, sausage rolls, garlic bread, pasta, quiche, Victoria sponges and all, even the whole four pieces of caramel shortcake that had been left on their tray.
The Victoria sponges were particularly magnificent along with the fantastic white chocolate snowballs, all made by Jillian and her Mum. That will have to become a buffet tradition. Like Auntie Linda’s trifle.
After eating it was the ELU race, in which a representative of each ELU room, raced and competed for the coveted Race night trophy. Louisa impressed all the girls with her wrist action lifting the trophy and winning a bottle of red wine in the process (the wine she swapped for a bottle of white when no one was looking).
The world’s largest raffle ended the night. The amount of donated prizes was fantastic and could explain why the girls sold out of raffle tickets. Numbers and colours were read out one after the other.
Lynsey Ann won a very nice pair of crystal glasses (one cracked) and a bottle of Grants (which my Dad gained as an early Fathers Day present). Jillian won more than a few prizes for more than a few cousins. Colin won a box of chocolate biscuits. Jennifer won a bottle of plonk (one of many won by others) and Dougie won his now traditional collection of bath salts and lotions, together with the exfoliating cloth. He had had his eye on it earlier on, as he sat, before the massive pile of raffle prizes, waiting to race. The only thing being he had been swearing not to win the soapy bath box of delights this time around as he’d won bath products instead of bottles at most, if not all, of the previous charity nights.
Anyway, he accepted his prize with grace and dignity, everyone laughing as he huffed and puffed walking back to his table, almost losing his exfoliating cloth on the way.
Finally a signed Rangers football, signed by the current squad and organised by Claire and her Auntie, was auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Colin started the bidding and continued the bidding, apparently being one of few Rangers fans among the gathered crowd. His Uncle John joined in, much to Colin’s irritation.
“You don’t even support Rangers!”
At one point Colin even outbid himself and as everyone laughed, a rather flustered Colin yelled, “just gee us the baw!”
In the end an old guy, sitting quietly in the shadows in the corner of the hall, outbid everyone and won the football for around £65, donating even more wonderful money to the cause.
Fiona, Kay and the rest of the ELU had all worked very hard to make the night a success and thanks to all the generous donations, raffle ticket buyers, racers, bookies and backers, made it a fantastic success. I’m certain the Neonatal ward will be more than happy with their donation.
Saturday, 11 June 2011
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
Say what you see with friends
Quiet as a mouse. Land in jail. Frog in the throat. Scared stiff. Cool cat. The walls have ears.
Colin, Jillian, Ka and myself fought over the remote playing Catchphrase on Saturday night.
As Mr. chips illustrated catchphrases on the television before us we had to go for the remote, before anyone else got to it, as soon as we had a guess, pressing the remote button assigned to our team and yelling the answer.
Strictly speaking, we probably didn't have to yell, the volume of your voice was not really a game requirement of the completely uninteractive DVD, but, as the competition got fiercer, the voices got louder. We reckoned we were safe from upsetting any neighbours though as we'd seen the Singing Postman leave earlier in the day with a bag full of booze and food, probably off to a singing barbeque somewhere. Anyway, as we played, the fake Roy Walker continued to give us the scores, which forever see sawed between the two teams of couples.
That was the most disappointing aspect of the game for me. No Roy Walker. Instead we got some bloke, that kind of sounded like he might have had some kind of vague irish accent at some point in his life. Presumably the irish part. It wasn't even a good impersonation. I had been quite looking forward to hearing the big, irish “Riiiiigggghhht!”, or even the occasional, “It's good, but it's not the one”.
With a couple of plates full of chicken fajitas and with a good few beers, the four of us had great fun on our games flavoured Saturday night in.
Following Catchphrase, I dug the Friends Scene It out from the flat's TARDIS cupboard. The Scene It games require you to circle a board answering questions on the featured movie or tv show, the questions usually accompanied by clips on the accompanying DVD. The picture frame, Jillian, the coffee cup, Colin, the skyscraper, myself and Joey's easy chair, Ka all headed out around the board on the spin of the dice. Ka's easy chair seemed to take things a little too easy though as I'm not sure she left the starting square and, like the other two, have seen every episode of the easy watching American comedy. Jillian won in the end, just beating Colin, who showed an extreme geek knowledge of the show, naming episodes, coming up with the obscure guest star character names and even naming a season just by watching the opening sequence.
I did manage to get at least one question right.
The question was a 'which episode?' and as the other three shouted, “The one when he asked her to marry her”, “The one when he popped her the question”, “The one with the ring!” and other such ridiculous answers.
I relaxed, took my time and then shouted, “The one with the Proposal!”.
I got it right. I wasn't smug about it though. I saved my victory dance for later when I started singing Aloe Blacc.
“I need a dollar, dollar, dollar is what I need, hey hey”.
Or a quid.
That's all a strip of raffle tickets for Friday night's prizes is. A mere quid.
Any more takers? (Ah, you thought I'd forgotten didn't you?!)
Colin, Jillian, Ka and myself fought over the remote playing Catchphrase on Saturday night.
As Mr. chips illustrated catchphrases on the television before us we had to go for the remote, before anyone else got to it, as soon as we had a guess, pressing the remote button assigned to our team and yelling the answer.
Strictly speaking, we probably didn't have to yell, the volume of your voice was not really a game requirement of the completely uninteractive DVD, but, as the competition got fiercer, the voices got louder. We reckoned we were safe from upsetting any neighbours though as we'd seen the Singing Postman leave earlier in the day with a bag full of booze and food, probably off to a singing barbeque somewhere. Anyway, as we played, the fake Roy Walker continued to give us the scores, which forever see sawed between the two teams of couples.
That was the most disappointing aspect of the game for me. No Roy Walker. Instead we got some bloke, that kind of sounded like he might have had some kind of vague irish accent at some point in his life. Presumably the irish part. It wasn't even a good impersonation. I had been quite looking forward to hearing the big, irish “Riiiiigggghhht!”, or even the occasional, “It's good, but it's not the one”.
With a couple of plates full of chicken fajitas and with a good few beers, the four of us had great fun on our games flavoured Saturday night in.
Following Catchphrase, I dug the Friends Scene It out from the flat's TARDIS cupboard. The Scene It games require you to circle a board answering questions on the featured movie or tv show, the questions usually accompanied by clips on the accompanying DVD. The picture frame, Jillian, the coffee cup, Colin, the skyscraper, myself and Joey's easy chair, Ka all headed out around the board on the spin of the dice. Ka's easy chair seemed to take things a little too easy though as I'm not sure she left the starting square and, like the other two, have seen every episode of the easy watching American comedy. Jillian won in the end, just beating Colin, who showed an extreme geek knowledge of the show, naming episodes, coming up with the obscure guest star character names and even naming a season just by watching the opening sequence.
I did manage to get at least one question right.
The question was a 'which episode?' and as the other three shouted, “The one when he asked her to marry her”, “The one when he popped her the question”, “The one with the ring!” and other such ridiculous answers.
I relaxed, took my time and then shouted, “The one with the Proposal!”.
I got it right. I wasn't smug about it though. I saved my victory dance for later when I started singing Aloe Blacc.
“I need a dollar, dollar, dollar is what I need, hey hey”.
Or a quid.
That's all a strip of raffle tickets for Friday night's prizes is. A mere quid.
Any more takers? (Ah, you thought I'd forgotten didn't you?!)
Friday, 3 June 2011
Raffles, races and a great cause
Raffle tickets for sale! Lot's of prizes to be won! £1 a strip! I may as well advertise it here on my blog too.
Ka's work, the Early Learning Unit Nursery in Hamilton, have organised a charity race/games night to raise funds for Wishaw Hospital's Neonatal Ward in memory of our Baby Lucy. All proceeds will go towards the care of all the sick or premature babies that pass through the Ward's doors, the general upkeep of the Ward and all that goes with it, including the many machines and operations it has to fund in order to care for and save the lives of all these very young children.
The race/games night takes place on the 10th June at the Raploch Bowling Club in Larkhall and all are welcome.
The ELU's race nights are always good fun and always a good laugh once the races get going. There's no boring old horse races on tv screens at these race nights though. It's all down to wrist action.
Taking part in these races, your sat, facing the wall, on one side of the room with a line of string tied around a stick. The line of string runs down between your legs under your chair and over the floor behind you, to the other side of the room where the other end is tied to a vertical, flat wooden horse on a small platform. Once the whistle blows, or the horn toots, or a New Zealander bellows,
the race begins, and you've got to wind the string up, around the mid section of your stick and that's when the wrist action kicks in. Winding the stick around in your hands, pulling the string up and around as speedily as you can all the while pulling the small wooden horse behind you, in towards the back of your chair. Obviously the first horse to reach and get pulled under it's pullers chair wins the race. Before each race small bets are placed on each puller and obviously if you've bet on the winner, you're in the money.
On one of the first race nights that we attended, Ka and myself brought the two sets of Mums and Dads along with us. After I successfully managed to win one of the first races, my Mum, suitably impressed, turned and asked Ka how my wrist action was. Ka, a little perplexed by the question, was not sure how to respond. Our relationship was at an earlier stage back then so it's probably understandable that she was not aware of what my wrist action was like. It's obviously deteriorated since back then anyway as I've never won a race since.
The last charity night also had a game of bingo at which I apparently got quite competitive, scanning my card, listening intently to the numbers being called, refusing to speak to anyone, merely giving the occasional grunt in response to questions or chat.
Prizes for the raffles and bingo have included signed footballs and strips from various old firm and Motherwell football players, bottles, chocolates, baskets of fruit, remote control cars, vouchers, bath salts and various other soapy delights.
As that last game of bingo drew to a close I finally stamped the last number on my card. I won a woman's umbrella and Dougie, Ka's Dad, not long afterwards, won an exfoliating glove - not great prizes from the bingo admittedly, but we were among the last to shout 'House!'.
I'm not sure this charity night will be as happy or care free as the last race nights, especially for Ka and myself, but I'm sure I'll end up pulling a horse's string at some point. I'll try and win a race for Lucy.
Ka's work, the Early Learning Unit Nursery in Hamilton, have organised a charity race/games night to raise funds for Wishaw Hospital's Neonatal Ward in memory of our Baby Lucy. All proceeds will go towards the care of all the sick or premature babies that pass through the Ward's doors, the general upkeep of the Ward and all that goes with it, including the many machines and operations it has to fund in order to care for and save the lives of all these very young children.
The race/games night takes place on the 10th June at the Raploch Bowling Club in Larkhall and all are welcome.
The ELU's race nights are always good fun and always a good laugh once the races get going. There's no boring old horse races on tv screens at these race nights though. It's all down to wrist action.
Taking part in these races, your sat, facing the wall, on one side of the room with a line of string tied around a stick. The line of string runs down between your legs under your chair and over the floor behind you, to the other side of the room where the other end is tied to a vertical, flat wooden horse on a small platform. Once the whistle blows, or the horn toots, or a New Zealander bellows,
the race begins, and you've got to wind the string up, around the mid section of your stick and that's when the wrist action kicks in. Winding the stick around in your hands, pulling the string up and around as speedily as you can all the while pulling the small wooden horse behind you, in towards the back of your chair. Obviously the first horse to reach and get pulled under it's pullers chair wins the race. Before each race small bets are placed on each puller and obviously if you've bet on the winner, you're in the money.
On one of the first race nights that we attended, Ka and myself brought the two sets of Mums and Dads along with us. After I successfully managed to win one of the first races, my Mum, suitably impressed, turned and asked Ka how my wrist action was. Ka, a little perplexed by the question, was not sure how to respond. Our relationship was at an earlier stage back then so it's probably understandable that she was not aware of what my wrist action was like. It's obviously deteriorated since back then anyway as I've never won a race since.
The last charity night also had a game of bingo at which I apparently got quite competitive, scanning my card, listening intently to the numbers being called, refusing to speak to anyone, merely giving the occasional grunt in response to questions or chat.
Prizes for the raffles and bingo have included signed footballs and strips from various old firm and Motherwell football players, bottles, chocolates, baskets of fruit, remote control cars, vouchers, bath salts and various other soapy delights.
As that last game of bingo drew to a close I finally stamped the last number on my card. I won a woman's umbrella and Dougie, Ka's Dad, not long afterwards, won an exfoliating glove - not great prizes from the bingo admittedly, but we were among the last to shout 'House!'.
I'm not sure this charity night will be as happy or care free as the last race nights, especially for Ka and myself, but I'm sure I'll end up pulling a horse's string at some point. I'll try and win a race for Lucy.
Tuesday, 31 May 2011
The Sainsburys entertainment aisle
I’ve not written on here in what feels like weeks. In fact, it has been weeks. After arriving back from sunny Ibiza, Ka and myself immediately went back to work, straight back to normality with an almighty thump. The last blog I wrote was by the side of a pool, both Ka and myself lying with Carte D’Or ice cream cones. Gawd, even that phrase ‘by the pool’ seems so alien now after 2 weeks being back at work.
We were at the side of the pool last weekend, mind you, but that was in the Hamilton Water Palace with our niece, Morgan.
Morgan had stayed the night on the Friday and after a night of cocktails, bow ties, iCarly and painting (Morgan always paints at Uncle Michael’s house) she was particularly keen to try out her new tankini and bright pink goggles. During the swimming in the Water Palace I kept throwing the goggles further into the pool in an effort to get Morgan to swim out and retrieve them, an effort to try and get her to show me her advancing swimming skills.
Unfortunately she didn’t put up with this for long, only carrying out the task once, before continually shouting at me and going in a huff, accusing me of mistreating her new pink goggles. Apparently she’d only got them the day before. I was merely trying to get her to show us her fantastic swimming abilities, it had not actually occurred to me until afterwards that I was treating her like a water bound dog with a game of fetch.
Anyway, after delivering, sorry, dropping Morgan off home to her Mum and Dad, we escaped home and collapsed once more of exhaustion. Morgan staying a mere one night usually always leaves us exhausted.
Ka was off out with Pauline for yet another girls night out so Chaz and myself went for another carry out in Giffnock. For some reason we’ve got to go all the way to Giffnock for a curry. Chaz insists upon it. I’m not sure what is exactly wrong with the countless curry shops in EK but they are all apparently not good enough for Chaz’s advanced tastebuds. Anyway, we returned to the flat with a a Hot Wheels toy Delorean, a fair number of carrier bags filled with beer offers from Giffnock’s Sainsburys and a cold curry to watch a couple of movies.
Sainsburys. A supermarket not particularly known for it’s special offers but one which has gone up considerably in my estimations after walking in the other day and finding a veritable feast of special offers in the entertainment section. My Dad’s Father’s day present, my Dad’s birthday present, a couple of Cds for myself and a present for Ka were all purchased. Great for the old Nectar card.
Ka was delighted with her gift from the Sainsburys entertainment aisle.
John Barrowman’s latest album.
A whole pound, it cost me. A quid. Unbelievable value for money.
Some might claim, certainly the more cynical of you, that John Barrowman’s latest album wouldn’t be worth a pound.
Of course, I would have to argue.
After the hard week she’d had, Ka’s smile that night was more than a pound’s worth. In fact it was the best quid I’ve ever spent… well, since that Carte D’Or ice cream cone at the side of the pool anyway.
In fact, the cone was dearer than the John Barrowman album!
We were at the side of the pool last weekend, mind you, but that was in the Hamilton Water Palace with our niece, Morgan.
Morgan had stayed the night on the Friday and after a night of cocktails, bow ties, iCarly and painting (Morgan always paints at Uncle Michael’s house) she was particularly keen to try out her new tankini and bright pink goggles. During the swimming in the Water Palace I kept throwing the goggles further into the pool in an effort to get Morgan to swim out and retrieve them, an effort to try and get her to show me her advancing swimming skills.
Unfortunately she didn’t put up with this for long, only carrying out the task once, before continually shouting at me and going in a huff, accusing me of mistreating her new pink goggles. Apparently she’d only got them the day before. I was merely trying to get her to show us her fantastic swimming abilities, it had not actually occurred to me until afterwards that I was treating her like a water bound dog with a game of fetch.
Anyway, after delivering, sorry, dropping Morgan off home to her Mum and Dad, we escaped home and collapsed once more of exhaustion. Morgan staying a mere one night usually always leaves us exhausted.
Ka was off out with Pauline for yet another girls night out so Chaz and myself went for another carry out in Giffnock. For some reason we’ve got to go all the way to Giffnock for a curry. Chaz insists upon it. I’m not sure what is exactly wrong with the countless curry shops in EK but they are all apparently not good enough for Chaz’s advanced tastebuds. Anyway, we returned to the flat with a a Hot Wheels toy Delorean, a fair number of carrier bags filled with beer offers from Giffnock’s Sainsburys and a cold curry to watch a couple of movies.
Sainsburys. A supermarket not particularly known for it’s special offers but one which has gone up considerably in my estimations after walking in the other day and finding a veritable feast of special offers in the entertainment section. My Dad’s Father’s day present, my Dad’s birthday present, a couple of Cds for myself and a present for Ka were all purchased. Great for the old Nectar card.
Ka was delighted with her gift from the Sainsburys entertainment aisle.
John Barrowman’s latest album.
A whole pound, it cost me. A quid. Unbelievable value for money.
Some might claim, certainly the more cynical of you, that John Barrowman’s latest album wouldn’t be worth a pound.
Of course, I would have to argue.
After the hard week she’d had, Ka’s smile that night was more than a pound’s worth. In fact it was the best quid I’ve ever spent… well, since that Carte D’Or ice cream cone at the side of the pool anyway.
In fact, the cone was dearer than the John Barrowman album!
Friday, 13 May 2011
Birds, breakfast and beaches
With justy over 24 hours to go now until Ka and myself start our journey back to good old Scotland we are back relaxing by the pool with the Cocoon elite. Although this Cocoon elite are not as lively as the movie characters. In fact, Ka and myself are worried that some of them may not be just lying sunbathing...
Captain Birdseye is here in the hotel too. He was lying with his Captain's hat on when we arrived around two hours ago. We know he was the real deal too as he had the white beard with the slightly crooked smile and the fact that all the waiters were saluting him put the nail in the coffin. The proverbial coffin, of course. He didn't actually die. He just sauntered off a while back, perhaps to wrestle a squid or something, as Ka and myself licked our carte d'or cones.
Last night Ka and myself boarded the Captain Nemo II, a large glass bottom ferry boat which took us a two hour cruise around the surrounding north west coastline of Ibiza, taking in the sights, including a smugglers cave, a large cliff where people get naked, a Batman logo shaped rock formation, a chance to feed the seagulls (which started following us after only ten minutes at sea and then commencing to try and shit on us after feeding - great idea Mr Tourist guide!) and, of course, the Ibiza sunset. Although cloudier than the first sunsets of the week, last nights was still great to watch from the bow of a boat, glass of 'champagne' in hand.
Afterwards we went to a local Dutch bar for dinner and after a thoroughly impressive meal there, went out for a few cocktails and then bed.
This morning we were once more rudely awoken. All through the week we've been rather rudely awoken by a villainous little bird that likes to perch on the head of the palm tree outside out balcony and tweet away like an unpleasant, highly shrill, alarm signal. The kind of noises R2-D2 would make, if on drugs. He, or she, (it may be a she for all I know, I've no idea when it comes to birds) sits on the palm tree and without fail, tweets away (no, it's not on twitter!), loudly, constantly and without fail every morning and even has the cheek to sit and look at you, if you venture out on to the balcony to confront it. He, or she, even turns up if Ka and myself decide to sit and relax on the balcony, late afternoon, and tweets away, blatantly in our faces.
On our way round a local touristy shop yesterday i spotted a rail of Ibiza sling shots that would be ideal for silencing our little friend. Of course, I abandoned the idea as we fly home tomorrow. If I'd been staying 2 weeks, it may have been a different story.
This morning it wasn't the bird that woke us up though, it was the maids. On a few morning the bird was almost drowned out by the hotel maids who seem to gather around our apartment door every morning with their mops and brushes and debate loudly, in their native spanish, about potatoes. Or at least that's what it sounds like to my untrained ears (I never took Spanish at school). They shout at each other like Spanish Speedy Gonzalezs (plural, Gonzalei?). Ka snapped this morning and shouted a grumpy "Shut up!" from her bed. Unfortunately I don't think they heard as they continued with thier noisy bustling.
I'll miss the breakfast in the hotel. Hot plate upon hot plate of sausage, egg, boiled and fried, bacon, tomatoes, fried bread, hash browns, croissants, pastries, cereals, jams, juices, fruit and crackers. Not to mention one of those cool toasters with the conveyer belts. All fantastic. The only niggly thing being that you're in constant competition with the other residents to get the best looking sausage or the last fried egg on the hot tray. If you miss the last fried egg or tomato you have to wait for the slightly scarey Head Waiter to replace the empty tray with a fully loaded version of breakfasty goodness while newly woken guests mill around you, huffing, puffing and generally moaning as to why you are holding up the queue.
The buffet dinner is even worse. the old folk are all circling the restaurant doors before they're even opened at half seven and if you turn up even five minutes later your waiting ages to get any dinner. Ka and myself have been amazed at the speed some of these pensioners eat. Some of them are diving into their ice cream before Ka and myself have even managed to pick up a fork.
I've missed out on a few puddings thanks to the elderly queue jumpers, the pudding hoggers and the guests who take a slice of the best pudding before they've even had a nibble on their main course. On Tuesday night I had my eye on the last two slices of chocolate cheesecake for Ka and myself and was making my way over to the dessert counter when I heard two women conversing loudly behind me.
"Oh, that cheesecake looks lovely"
"Only two bits left too. Count me in, hold on, I'll get a plate"
By this point I'd had enough of missing out and witha thought along the lines of "not on your nelly!", I raced up to the dessert counter and quickly cakesliced the two last peices on to my plate. With a smug look on my face, and a mental victory dance going on in my head, I turned to face the two hopefuls as I heard them come up behind me. My smug look melted as I looked round at their glaring looks of sad annoyance. One of them looking up grimly from her wheelchair. Her friend glowering at me with complete hatred.
Stuff it. I'm on holiday. I can eat whatever puddings I want. Even if I don't look quite as good on the beach as a result. Unlike the inhabitants of Cala Bassa, a beach, reached by ferry boat, which Ka and myself visited during the week. We were lying sunbathing, when I suddenly happened to notice we were surrounded by naked people.
Captain Birdseye is here in the hotel too. He was lying with his Captain's hat on when we arrived around two hours ago. We know he was the real deal too as he had the white beard with the slightly crooked smile and the fact that all the waiters were saluting him put the nail in the coffin. The proverbial coffin, of course. He didn't actually die. He just sauntered off a while back, perhaps to wrestle a squid or something, as Ka and myself licked our carte d'or cones.
Last night Ka and myself boarded the Captain Nemo II, a large glass bottom ferry boat which took us a two hour cruise around the surrounding north west coastline of Ibiza, taking in the sights, including a smugglers cave, a large cliff where people get naked, a Batman logo shaped rock formation, a chance to feed the seagulls (which started following us after only ten minutes at sea and then commencing to try and shit on us after feeding - great idea Mr Tourist guide!) and, of course, the Ibiza sunset. Although cloudier than the first sunsets of the week, last nights was still great to watch from the bow of a boat, glass of 'champagne' in hand.
Afterwards we went to a local Dutch bar for dinner and after a thoroughly impressive meal there, went out for a few cocktails and then bed.
This morning we were once more rudely awoken. All through the week we've been rather rudely awoken by a villainous little bird that likes to perch on the head of the palm tree outside out balcony and tweet away like an unpleasant, highly shrill, alarm signal. The kind of noises R2-D2 would make, if on drugs. He, or she, (it may be a she for all I know, I've no idea when it comes to birds) sits on the palm tree and without fail, tweets away (no, it's not on twitter!), loudly, constantly and without fail every morning and even has the cheek to sit and look at you, if you venture out on to the balcony to confront it. He, or she, even turns up if Ka and myself decide to sit and relax on the balcony, late afternoon, and tweets away, blatantly in our faces.
On our way round a local touristy shop yesterday i spotted a rail of Ibiza sling shots that would be ideal for silencing our little friend. Of course, I abandoned the idea as we fly home tomorrow. If I'd been staying 2 weeks, it may have been a different story.
This morning it wasn't the bird that woke us up though, it was the maids. On a few morning the bird was almost drowned out by the hotel maids who seem to gather around our apartment door every morning with their mops and brushes and debate loudly, in their native spanish, about potatoes. Or at least that's what it sounds like to my untrained ears (I never took Spanish at school). They shout at each other like Spanish Speedy Gonzalezs (plural, Gonzalei?). Ka snapped this morning and shouted a grumpy "Shut up!" from her bed. Unfortunately I don't think they heard as they continued with thier noisy bustling.
I'll miss the breakfast in the hotel. Hot plate upon hot plate of sausage, egg, boiled and fried, bacon, tomatoes, fried bread, hash browns, croissants, pastries, cereals, jams, juices, fruit and crackers. Not to mention one of those cool toasters with the conveyer belts. All fantastic. The only niggly thing being that you're in constant competition with the other residents to get the best looking sausage or the last fried egg on the hot tray. If you miss the last fried egg or tomato you have to wait for the slightly scarey Head Waiter to replace the empty tray with a fully loaded version of breakfasty goodness while newly woken guests mill around you, huffing, puffing and generally moaning as to why you are holding up the queue.
The buffet dinner is even worse. the old folk are all circling the restaurant doors before they're even opened at half seven and if you turn up even five minutes later your waiting ages to get any dinner. Ka and myself have been amazed at the speed some of these pensioners eat. Some of them are diving into their ice cream before Ka and myself have even managed to pick up a fork.
I've missed out on a few puddings thanks to the elderly queue jumpers, the pudding hoggers and the guests who take a slice of the best pudding before they've even had a nibble on their main course. On Tuesday night I had my eye on the last two slices of chocolate cheesecake for Ka and myself and was making my way over to the dessert counter when I heard two women conversing loudly behind me.
"Oh, that cheesecake looks lovely"
"Only two bits left too. Count me in, hold on, I'll get a plate"
By this point I'd had enough of missing out and witha thought along the lines of "not on your nelly!", I raced up to the dessert counter and quickly cakesliced the two last peices on to my plate. With a smug look on my face, and a mental victory dance going on in my head, I turned to face the two hopefuls as I heard them come up behind me. My smug look melted as I looked round at their glaring looks of sad annoyance. One of them looking up grimly from her wheelchair. Her friend glowering at me with complete hatred.
Stuff it. I'm on holiday. I can eat whatever puddings I want. Even if I don't look quite as good on the beach as a result. Unlike the inhabitants of Cala Bassa, a beach, reached by ferry boat, which Ka and myself visited during the week. We were lying sunbathing, when I suddenly happened to notice we were surrounded by naked people.
Thursday, 12 May 2011
Too old for Ibiza
According to the digital clock display on the harbour side, it's 25 degrees celcius in San Antonio today. It seems far warmer even though there is a strong breeze flowing in from the ocean, stirring the giant palm trees which line the colourful streets of fountains, cafes and shops.
Ka and myself arrived on Saturday night, leaving behind the Scottish sunshine and looking forward to an early, sunny summer holiday. A chilled week in sunny Ibiza before it's June/July busy season begins.
The plane descended into Ibiza airport around 8 o'clock in the evening, shrouded in grey cloud and as we left the airport, the rain and thunderstorm began. Almighty, jagged lines of lightening ripped through the black skies and around the mountainous hills around us, the coach full of Scots tourists (two of which were seeing lightening for the first time), as it made it's way through Ibiza's main roads to drop us all at our various hotels.
Instead of the warm, humid, foreign conditions we had all imagined ourselves to be arriving in, Ka and myself disembarked from our coach in the rain, our driver quickly ducking down into the coach's luggage compartment and chucking our cases out at us, into the puddles as ominous palm trees swung threateningly overhead, framing the front of our hotel, its entrance looming over us through the rain and wind, like the beginnings of a scarey murder mystery rather than a holiday in the sun.
Thankfully the rain quickly petered out (thanks Peter!) and after being served some, dried up remains for that night's buffet dinner, which Ka and myself politely received and politely refused the majority of, we ventured out for a short walk to check out the area and maybe partake in a wee drink to start our holiday.
We sauntered up the Promenade, home to our hotel, at five the next morning, drunk but happy. We had walked along the Promenade directly outside the hotel, which stretches the length of the beach and the harbour and inadvertantly walked straight up into the busy, hectic main bar area of San Antonio, locally named Cami de Santa Agnes or what clubbing tourists know it as, "the westend", or "the strip". Upon entering the strip we were immediately accosted by club touts of all nationalities, shapes and sizes. We ended up perched in a supposedly Scottish bar named, The Highlander were we enjoyed a few drinks with various folk including a friendly bunch of London lads over for a 21st, boviously sozzled but still a good laugh, and a hen party from Livingston, from which the chief bridesmaid happily chatted away with us. Whilst she chatted, one of her party, a slightly older memeber of the 'mutton dressed as lamb' variety, got amorous with one of the London blokes, the two of them disappearing up an alley for half an hour after claiming they were going home and appearing a little disshevlled looking not long afterwards.
Although the whole street of bars seemed lively enough you couldn't help but feel it was all a precursor for what's to come in the June July months for the strip's nightlife and the town as touts for the varrious bars bounced around the cobbled street looking a little at a loss as they struggled for pedestrians to shout at with offers of free shots, or glasses of supposed champagne.
Needless to say, the following morning, Ka and myself missed our welcome meeting and our breakfast not opening our eyes till well past the last serving at 10.
We staying half board which gives us the luxury of breakfast and dinner in the hotel as long as we eat between certain times, sit where they want us to sit, don't ask for glasses of ice and just generally behave ourselves, avoiding any battles with any other guests, including buffet battles.
Baefore we got to this sunny climate, fellow work colleagues and friends had taken great smugness in telling me I was too old for Ibiza. Well, after the first morning in this hotel, I could quite rightly say that I'd never seen so many old people under one roof. The hotel is full of old folk! I've never seen so many hearing aids.
"Perfect for couples", the brochure said. It never mentioned anything about "your last holiday EVER".
Though it did certainly feel like that as I headed down to relax at the poolside on the Sunday morning, to try and get a plastic sunbed under the suspicious gazes the gathered pensioners who had already claimed their places there. Thankfully the thunder and rain had now dispersed revealing a blistering blue sky. Even the lizards were running for cover as I took my place alongside Ka on one of the ever so comfortable plastic beds at the poolside, beside the pool's cafe and toilet hut. So comfortable in fact that after approximately twenty seconds of lying a queer feeling did come over my body. Within moments I was rushing, as subtley as I could, into the toilet hut and puking down one of the pans. Not the greatest start to the holiday but after a small portion of a toastie from the pool's cafe we were off once more to take a long walk along the , thankfully, long pier. Sunday was our first full day in Ibiza and in the evening we were to experience our first half board dinner and that's when the battles with the hearing aids almost began, Ka and myself bought the worst bottle of wine known to man and we met Ashley (no, not him from Coronation Street!).
Minor battles also commenced with small chirping birds, the lady in the wheel chair, the Head Waiter, the Hitler Ice Waiter and the wee Ice cream nicking little old lady.
But they're all other stories for another time. I'm off to get ready for a sunset cruise.
Ka and myself arrived on Saturday night, leaving behind the Scottish sunshine and looking forward to an early, sunny summer holiday. A chilled week in sunny Ibiza before it's June/July busy season begins.
The plane descended into Ibiza airport around 8 o'clock in the evening, shrouded in grey cloud and as we left the airport, the rain and thunderstorm began. Almighty, jagged lines of lightening ripped through the black skies and around the mountainous hills around us, the coach full of Scots tourists (two of which were seeing lightening for the first time), as it made it's way through Ibiza's main roads to drop us all at our various hotels.
Instead of the warm, humid, foreign conditions we had all imagined ourselves to be arriving in, Ka and myself disembarked from our coach in the rain, our driver quickly ducking down into the coach's luggage compartment and chucking our cases out at us, into the puddles as ominous palm trees swung threateningly overhead, framing the front of our hotel, its entrance looming over us through the rain and wind, like the beginnings of a scarey murder mystery rather than a holiday in the sun.
Thankfully the rain quickly petered out (thanks Peter!) and after being served some, dried up remains for that night's buffet dinner, which Ka and myself politely received and politely refused the majority of, we ventured out for a short walk to check out the area and maybe partake in a wee drink to start our holiday.
We sauntered up the Promenade, home to our hotel, at five the next morning, drunk but happy. We had walked along the Promenade directly outside the hotel, which stretches the length of the beach and the harbour and inadvertantly walked straight up into the busy, hectic main bar area of San Antonio, locally named Cami de Santa Agnes or what clubbing tourists know it as, "the westend", or "the strip". Upon entering the strip we were immediately accosted by club touts of all nationalities, shapes and sizes. We ended up perched in a supposedly Scottish bar named, The Highlander were we enjoyed a few drinks with various folk including a friendly bunch of London lads over for a 21st, boviously sozzled but still a good laugh, and a hen party from Livingston, from which the chief bridesmaid happily chatted away with us. Whilst she chatted, one of her party, a slightly older memeber of the 'mutton dressed as lamb' variety, got amorous with one of the London blokes, the two of them disappearing up an alley for half an hour after claiming they were going home and appearing a little disshevlled looking not long afterwards.
Although the whole street of bars seemed lively enough you couldn't help but feel it was all a precursor for what's to come in the June July months for the strip's nightlife and the town as touts for the varrious bars bounced around the cobbled street looking a little at a loss as they struggled for pedestrians to shout at with offers of free shots, or glasses of supposed champagne.
Needless to say, the following morning, Ka and myself missed our welcome meeting and our breakfast not opening our eyes till well past the last serving at 10.
We staying half board which gives us the luxury of breakfast and dinner in the hotel as long as we eat between certain times, sit where they want us to sit, don't ask for glasses of ice and just generally behave ourselves, avoiding any battles with any other guests, including buffet battles.
Baefore we got to this sunny climate, fellow work colleagues and friends had taken great smugness in telling me I was too old for Ibiza. Well, after the first morning in this hotel, I could quite rightly say that I'd never seen so many old people under one roof. The hotel is full of old folk! I've never seen so many hearing aids.
"Perfect for couples", the brochure said. It never mentioned anything about "your last holiday EVER".
Though it did certainly feel like that as I headed down to relax at the poolside on the Sunday morning, to try and get a plastic sunbed under the suspicious gazes the gathered pensioners who had already claimed their places there. Thankfully the thunder and rain had now dispersed revealing a blistering blue sky. Even the lizards were running for cover as I took my place alongside Ka on one of the ever so comfortable plastic beds at the poolside, beside the pool's cafe and toilet hut. So comfortable in fact that after approximately twenty seconds of lying a queer feeling did come over my body. Within moments I was rushing, as subtley as I could, into the toilet hut and puking down one of the pans. Not the greatest start to the holiday but after a small portion of a toastie from the pool's cafe we were off once more to take a long walk along the , thankfully, long pier. Sunday was our first full day in Ibiza and in the evening we were to experience our first half board dinner and that's when the battles with the hearing aids almost began, Ka and myself bought the worst bottle of wine known to man and we met Ashley (no, not him from Coronation Street!).
Minor battles also commenced with small chirping birds, the lady in the wheel chair, the Head Waiter, the Hitler Ice Waiter and the wee Ice cream nicking little old lady.
But they're all other stories for another time. I'm off to get ready for a sunset cruise.
Saturday, 7 May 2011
We're packing
Ka and myself are hurriedly putting the last few things in our cases. We're leaving the country. Alex Salmond's in charge!
Alex Salmond has been all over the news and the tv for the past few days thanks to the election results so it'll make our short holiday away all the more worthwhile.
If the coalition government has done one thing for Britain so far it's help push the Scottish people over the edge. The SNPs have won a majority government in Scotland thanks to the disillusionment of Labour supporters, not to mention the removal of any support of the Lib Dems and Tories. Then again with that bloke in charge of Labour, Iain Gray, Gray with a capital GRAY, they never really stood much of a chance. I think I actually nodded off the few times I seen him speaking on the news, inadvertently dropping my biscuit in my tea.
Hate it when that happens. Soggy biscuit lying in a pile of mush at the bottom of your cup as you finish. Must be even worse for muffins. Jillian managed to drop a muffin in her tea the other day?! It was a mini muffin to be fair, not one of the mother muffins you get out of the supermarket bakeries or Starbucks shops. Jillian was not listening to Iain Gray though.
I wonder how many perfectly good cups of tea Iain Gray has ruined? Maybe that's why he's quitting? Gray had wanted 'root and branch reform'. So he was blaming the tea.
Anyway, that's reminded me. Teabags. Must remember to take some good British tea to Ibiza with us (who says I'm too old for Ibiza?!). Good British Nambarrie tea.
Whilst writing this, I have just received an email from Kenny in Oz, ordering me to visit a bar in San Antonio, named Kilty's. Apparently it sells bottles of buckie. I've only had one gulp of buckie in my whole life but hey, you never know.
I'd better go and weigh these cases again. We've borrowed a luggage weighing device from my Mum and Dad in order to ensure we come within the correct weights specified for our flights. When I say 'we' I mean of course, Ka's case. I'm fine. 10 and a half kg. Easy.
Ka is coming in at just under 15. For a moment we were almost taking her big Revlon hair dryer. Ka made me phone Ibiza to make sure the hotel rooms have hair dryers. Then, after I had come off the phone, she realised she had to know whether there were ironing facilities. Ironing facilities? Just hang your clothes up, I said. But no, we need an iron. Our clothes have to be neatly pressed. Even in Ibiza. So a second phonecall to the same hotel receptionist was made. The Spanish lady sniggered slightly on the other end of the line and politely brushed my apologies aside. She'll no doubt be a little puzzled when a balding man in a creased t-shirt turns up tonight at her reception booking in under the same name.
Alex Salmond has been all over the news and the tv for the past few days thanks to the election results so it'll make our short holiday away all the more worthwhile.
If the coalition government has done one thing for Britain so far it's help push the Scottish people over the edge. The SNPs have won a majority government in Scotland thanks to the disillusionment of Labour supporters, not to mention the removal of any support of the Lib Dems and Tories. Then again with that bloke in charge of Labour, Iain Gray, Gray with a capital GRAY, they never really stood much of a chance. I think I actually nodded off the few times I seen him speaking on the news, inadvertently dropping my biscuit in my tea.
Hate it when that happens. Soggy biscuit lying in a pile of mush at the bottom of your cup as you finish. Must be even worse for muffins. Jillian managed to drop a muffin in her tea the other day?! It was a mini muffin to be fair, not one of the mother muffins you get out of the supermarket bakeries or Starbucks shops. Jillian was not listening to Iain Gray though.
I wonder how many perfectly good cups of tea Iain Gray has ruined? Maybe that's why he's quitting? Gray had wanted 'root and branch reform'. So he was blaming the tea.
Anyway, that's reminded me. Teabags. Must remember to take some good British tea to Ibiza with us (who says I'm too old for Ibiza?!). Good British Nambarrie tea.
Whilst writing this, I have just received an email from Kenny in Oz, ordering me to visit a bar in San Antonio, named Kilty's. Apparently it sells bottles of buckie. I've only had one gulp of buckie in my whole life but hey, you never know.
I'd better go and weigh these cases again. We've borrowed a luggage weighing device from my Mum and Dad in order to ensure we come within the correct weights specified for our flights. When I say 'we' I mean of course, Ka's case. I'm fine. 10 and a half kg. Easy.
Ka is coming in at just under 15. For a moment we were almost taking her big Revlon hair dryer. Ka made me phone Ibiza to make sure the hotel rooms have hair dryers. Then, after I had come off the phone, she realised she had to know whether there were ironing facilities. Ironing facilities? Just hang your clothes up, I said. But no, we need an iron. Our clothes have to be neatly pressed. Even in Ibiza. So a second phonecall to the same hotel receptionist was made. The Spanish lady sniggered slightly on the other end of the line and politely brushed my apologies aside. She'll no doubt be a little puzzled when a balding man in a creased t-shirt turns up tonight at her reception booking in under the same name.
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