The azure blue of the Atlantic Ocean provides a distant landscape to today’s poolside prose penning. Fuerteventura pleasingly warm, although an accompanying zephyr from the sea tempers the warmth a degree or two.
Apart from the pool bar beatbox the audio backdrop is predominantly the hushed tones of. chattering holidaymakers. Conversations conducted in a multitude of European tongues, many of which I struggle to understand.
One such person a fella whose broad Glaswegian dialect is more incomprehensible to me than German or Spanish. Unlike the Scot, at least I can understand the occasional word our European cousins utter.
During a conversation with the Glasgow chap yesterday evening, with alcohol elevating his chatter from incomprehensible to utterly f***ing baffling, I’m convinced he asked me if he could marry my pigeons.
Stood next to him in the bar queue I smiled disingenuously, poured myself a white wine from the all-inclusive beverage smorgasbord and left him to it… Although, while wandering back to my seat, I admit to a degree of intrigue into how he knew I kept pigeons.
An all-inclusive bar, and my lax self-discipline with wine are the source of a fluffy head this morning. Well that and a raft of prescription meds, including a course of antibiotics the hotel doctor prescribed me for the badly infected middle finger. This digit, which has plagued me since Tuesday evening, is swollen to such an extent you may see a cast of it in the next Ann Summer’s catalogue.
As at write it is shortly before midday on Thursday. A throng of holidaymakers are laid on poolside beds soaking up the Canary Islands sunshine. I’m drinking a refreshing Sprite and in conjunction with penning this piece, am endeavouring to create further absurd ‘True or False’ questions for an online quiz I’m attending with some mates back in the UK this evening.
These unreliable inquiries, relating to Fuerte and my vacation, including the inane catechism “True or False – Fuerteventuras’ historic 1998 yeast famine bizarrely took place in 1996?”
Yours truly’s intention from a literary perspective when on this Atlantic island was to continue a fictional humour/drama novel I commenced back in UK. This a tome relating to an emotional support team. Sadly, as with my discipline at the all-inclusive bar, my self-control and verve for that project is sadly lacking as things stand.
It could be worse, of course, I could be completely ignoring my desire to create prose while away. At least I’m still at the wheel of the blog bus; hence this and yesterday’s (hopefully) enlightening vignettes. Presently, I spend my mornings at the keyboard and afternoon in the sun seeking a tan and vitamin D infusion.
The poolside boom box volume has just ramped up, playing a medley of Euro beat pop. As my concentration levels are shot, it’s time to bring this essay to it’s denouement me thinks.
Footnote – I’ve not idea if the genre of music being played is Euro beat pop. Or, if truth be told ,if that musical classification even exists… Perhaps, I need to address my pre-blog post research.
Right, I’m off, the pigeon’s wedding plans won’t make themselves!!