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Bugger, what to write about when I’m ‘all written out’ this month?
OK, well, I wasn’t going to say anything because I always end up getting it in the neck, but I’m off to Montenegro tomorrow for a week (but I’ll be back by the time you’re reading this, all being well).
Yeah, yeah, yeah, Edge bloke’s off again.
Hang on, no, no, no, it’s not all sea, sand, buckets & spades and
donkey turds where yours truly is concerned. Be fair, readers, I’ve
only had a week in Gran Canaria so far this year, save for a few
long-weekends in sunny Dorset (see page 22 for the very latest), so I’m
very much looking forward to the rest (I’ve currently got a groin
strain, see, so if anyone out there’s had one and knows the best way to
sort ’em out, then please let me know as it’s not allowing me to play
my beloved squash at the moment. Equally, if anyone simply wants to rub
it for me???).
So yeah, that ‘holiday feeling’ has just started to kick-in, a day
before I’m due to fly out with a list as long as your arm of all the
cosmetics Mrs. Edge wants me to buy her in the Duty Free.
I never completely relax until my case has gone down that conveyor
belt, Generation Game style, to doubtless be kicked about by all those
baggage handling muppets behind the scenes. And I’m always anxious that
the over-made-up check-in girl doesn’t tell me I’ve exceeded my weight
allowance.
“Has anyone interfered with your case, sir?”
“Yes, the bloody wife has.”
See, that’s why I’m always sweating so much, ’cos she puts all her lotions and potions into my case and they weigh a bloody ton.
“Well, there’s no room in mine,” she always says.
Then don’t take fourteen evening outfits plus matching shoes and handbags for a seven day break then.....my sweet!
What’re those posh seafood counters all about in airports?
Don’t get me wrong, I like seafood very much, but aren’t they just a tad ostentatious?
“Oh, yar, look at one....I’m eating seafood. What’s more, even at these prices, I can afford to.”
At the other end of the scale, I’m not in favour of the crappy airport
pub where there’s always half-a-dozen lads from up north sat around a
table downing pints of Smoothflow, even at four o’clock in the morning.
“We’re off on our ’olidays, we are.”
Hmmmm. Was Scarborough fully booked then?
I do like people-watching though and I’m always intrigued when I see
blokes dressed as if they simply don’t know how to ‘dress down’ (no, I
am not saying everyone should be wearing shell-suits, but how can you
be comfortable flying in a shirt, tie and a sports jacket with a silk
handkerchief sticking jauntily out of the breast pocket?).
Eventually your flight is called and you get into the departure lounge
to clock who’s going to be on the same ’plane as you, breathing the
same air.
After a cursory glance around so see that there are no suicide bombers
(well, it does cross your mind these days, doesn’t it, even if you’re
only going to Spain), you then get to hoping that the people with the
Scouser accents won’t be staying at the same resort as you.
And when you do finally board the ’plane, I’m forever eyeing the people
up walking down the aisle, marking them out of ten as to whether I’d be
happy if they were to sit next to me for the next three hours. Isn’t it
always a crap start to any holiday when someone who scores but a four
slouches in undignifiedly beside you (because they are buggers to get
into, are aeroplane seats).
Once you’re safely in the air, the trolley-dolly’s spring into action
charging Ritz type prices for a cup of crap coffee, only you buy one
anyway because you’re on your holidays and you really could murder a
Nescafe.
Then out comes that book you took on your last holiday, but never got
round to reading, before your mind starts wandering. Did I reset the
central heating? Did I lock the garden gate? Did I even lock the car?
Did I pack my nasal hair clippers, because I’ve been meaning to sort
them out for ages, and now I’ll have the time?
Ah yes, holidays. You can’t beat ’em, can you?
Yet they’re over in but the blink of an eye (and I might as well not
even be there on the penultimate day for all the pleasure I (don’t) get
out of it).
Still, it sure beats being in Chelmsford.
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