This pièce littéraire is brought to you at a second attempt – Following a network issue at the Majorcan hotel I resided last week, my inaugural attempt wasn’t saved to my editing app. An episode which didn’t spring to light until I attempted to retrieve the six hundred words I’d painstakingly written on a tablet. Locutions which’d frustratingly gone to the prose graveyard in the sky…. Not the cloud (of the e-variety) as I’d wanted.
Anyhow, I’m back home now….. So here are ‘Observations from a Spanish poolside – Take 2’:-
“Pay attention, Strachan!” a cry oft heard from one of my teachers during high school years. With spending most of my working life ’embracing’ deeply unfulfilling IT roles which nowhere near appropriated my skillset, perhaps tutorial advocacies yours truly should’ve paid more heed.
Don’t get me wrong, the three companies who were good enough to afford me a decent salary for my indifferent efforts were innocent as Lee Harvey Oswald was in JFK’s assassination as this this discontents source……. My irk was resultant at not being able to follow a career path utilising my creative strengths; yours truly’s following of a Faustian path where I bartered my soul with the IT devil, was completely and utterly self-inflicted.
You maybe wondering why I’m picking at festering scars consequential of a long held disquiet at my employment choices. Perhaps mooting ‘Why are you doing this to yourself, Gary?”….. You going on to add “Since your retirement, you appear to’ve acquired a new zest for life…… You even smile now for flips sake!!….. Let it go,old chap…..Well, middle-aged chap.”
Well, if you let me get a word in edgeways I’ll tell you……. What do you mean you’re not really interested?…… Well, I’m gonna tell you anyways…….. So yah boo sucks; as the Hexham Yah Boo Sucks Society are prone to exclaim……. So, anyhow, 200+ words into this rambling yarn I’ll finally get to the point.
I’m currently holidaying in the Spanish Baeleric Isles. My base a Majorcan hotel which pleasingly scratches all of GJ Strachan’s itches. Well, apart from the one on his burnt shoulder following a day of laxity with sun protection cream….. Is it just me, or does there appear to be a pattern of self-inflicted physical and mental anguish underpinning this narrative?
Anyhow, the earlier point made about indifferent engagement levels in class during my teen years was driven home in recent days. An awareness heightened since my partner in crime, Sarah, and my arrival at this amenable location on the edge of Porto Cristo. A realisation borne from shortly after arrival becoming mindful the demographic of our base camp were French speaking clientele.
Consequently, over the past week I was part of an English contingent so overwhelmed and outnumbered by France’s populace I know how King Harold’s forces must’ve felt during 1066’s Battle of Hastings. A dreadful time when the Angles had their arses handed to them on a plate by Normans.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve no beef (or should I say boeuf) with our Gallic cousins. In fact some of the nicest French people I know are …… erm ….. well, French….. Or, I’m sure they would be lovely if I actually knew any.
I’d like to point out at this juncture, the fact Sarah and yours truly were unable to fully follow the evening entertainment due to language barriers wasn’t anyone’s fault other than mine. However, like every element of our seven day hiatus off the Iberian peninsula, we still managed to enjoy the evening clambakes.
I did conclude, though, after incomprehensible word after incomprehensible word left the entertainment team’s gob, that’d I’d paid more attention to my French teacher Mr Young back in the 1970’s. Not to mention afforded the course text book (revealing exposes of a Monsieur and Madam Bertillon’s existence) greater mind.
As I say, this language disparity between us Luddite linguists from north of the English Channel and the French didn’t spoil the holiday one jot. In fact at the end of one evening, which I think was about movie themes, at its conclusion I was presented by staff with an onion string and a Maurice Chevalier face mask……. I’ve no idea whether it was a prize for unknowingly/accidentally winning the quiz, or that they just wanted my to hide my face and smell more oniony.
Footnote – Incidentally, the onion string contained no root veg bulbs, it was merely an amalgam of threads formerly housing oignons….. That being said, it later came in handy for securing the Maurice Chevalier mask to yours truly’s face!
As I mentioned above, Sarah and myself have now returned to the UK after a fantastic week in the Majorcan sun. Although unwanted, even the pair of us testing positive for COVID-19 hasn’t diminished the brio of our week long vacation.
Some may comment my struggling to comprehend the evening entertainment teams French filled orations on holiday must’ve spoiled things slightly. However, it’s fair to say months of dating Sarah (whose broad West Yorkshire dialect introduce multitude comprehension challenges) a night being unaware of what’s being uttered is nothing new!!