Coughing into the Caucasus

Well Hello Blog, it's been a while.

I seem to have bypassed August somehow. Not surprising though, August was a rough and busy month. It started with a bout of the common cold which eventually developed into sinusitis and lost me three weeks of life, sanity and breathing without effort. Then, after all the congestion and heavy breathing, I rediscovered the wondrous and addictive attraction of nose spray.
Oh Dear!
A few years ago I was prone to frequent bouts of sinus infections and eventually caved to the relief provided by said nose spray. After a few months of prolific use, I had to admit that yes, I was addicted. I knew it. I would look at my reflection and speak the words out loud and yet, was unable to stop sticking that little tube up my nose and inhaling the chemical mix that eased my beleaguered breath. I’m ashamed to admit that it went on for months, possibly more than a year. Finally I felt able to stand up to the evil that lives in the tiny bottle, and stop. It was quite easy to be honest. After that I swore I would never become its victim again. I convinced my mind; unfortunately my body follows its own path in life. Aaah, dreaded nose spray, I may have become your temporary victim once again but I assure you, it’s not for long.
I hope.
August also gifted us with a lovely family holiday. Packing up our sunscreen, swimsuits (nose spray) and flip-flops, we jetted off to Turkey for lovely, relaxing week in the blazing sun. This was our fourth time in Turkey; we always go “All-in”, mostly due to the fact that we’re a lazy lot and usually hang around the pool enjoying the 30 plus heat and refreshments. This time we chose Kusadasi, in the shade of the Turkish mountains. Much fun was had by all and we made friends with two young Dutch girls staying in our hotel. Unfortunately, these two stunningly attractive girls appeared to be a magnet for unwanted attention from the waiting staff. One day, the girls asked our advice with a dilemma. A man claiming to be reception staff had phoned their room, he proceeded to insist that the girls accompany him and a friend to the local night clubs that evening. Full of shock they declined, he continued to insist; eventually they hung up on him. Advice? Well, that’s a no-brainer isn’t it? Call the manager and inform her that her staff are pestering her guests and infringing their privacy.
Enter Manageress. Those of you with kids will know the series “Rug Rats” or for the Dutch amongst us “Ratjetoe”. I kid you not, this woman was the image of Tommy Pickles' Mama, complete with bright red curly hair and thick rimmed specs. Having got over the initial shock of being confronted with a real life cartoon character, we helped the girls explain in English what had happened. Initially shocked, the manageress seemed disinclined to believe the girls’ story and explained that her receptionist was recently married and she found it difficult to believe he would do this. “Well somebody did” …. Eventually she agreed to look into it and get back to us. By this time I was pretending to be the girls Aunt as a means to protect them fro unwanted attention and interfere to my hearts content within the sensation eruption. An hour or so later, she returned and said nobody on her staff had admitted to calling the room. Erm....No kidding, Sherlock? She did however tell us to contact her should anything untoward happen again.
Guess what, it did!
During lunch one day (and after numerous catcalls in Turkish with accompanying wolf whistles by the pool) the girls were presented with a napkin by a waiter. Written on this, in a bad mix of English, Dutch and German was a request for a date….surprise surprise!
They refused. The waiter(s) kept insisting and aggressively trying to persuade them. Eventually, the girls just walked away. We’d been for a morning out and when we got back they asked for our help to speak with Mrs.Pickles. Pat said he’d rather speak to the boys himself and warn them off but the girls felt they’d feel safer and happier reporting it. Which they did. That evening, during dinner they pointed out the offending waiter, who was then fired on the spot.
Ooops.
Mrs. Manageress informed us she’s run her hotel with a rod of iron and this behavior would not be tolerated by her staff. Yes dear, this would be the same “staff” who denied all knowledge when you first confronted them, would it? Is someone’s nose out of joint here perchance? Whereas I felt the punishment a tad harsh to fit the crime, there was nothing to be done apart from get on with our sunshiney retreat.
The girls joined us for a game of “who am I” one evening. You know the one where a post-it is stuck on your head and you try to guess who’s on it. All was going quite well, apart from Gareth’s repeated protestations about the “stupid game” and the constant interruptions as we all popped to the bar for (much needed) alcoholic refills…then someone picked “Nelson Mandela” - the girls were a tad confused. Who’s that then?…I know the name but...
Realizing that Nelson was a bit beyond them, Pat chose Barack Obama. Repeating…"Who’s that then?" and both looking a tad blank. I kid you not, they really were, Gary explained in his permanently disdainful tone “Are you serous, the President of America?” …”Oooh, I know”, one of them yelled excitedly “It’s George Bush” …big grin...silence...a little less confidently “Isn’t it?”.
Game Over!
Later on, after the girls had made their fragrant way back to their (now safe from unwanted attentions) room, we asked Gareth whether he was as still enamored of these blonde beauties as he'd first seemed. Again with the disdain, coupled with some bemusement “ Yeah Right” shake of gelled quiff ”Barack Obama, seriously?“
On a mischief roll I said “Yes, but they are lovely girls”
“Fair enough” shrugs Gar “but dead thick outweighs beauty you know, Mam”

Gotta love Gareth’s “Holyhead” turn of phrase, as well as his wonderfully deep insight. I was very proud of Gar that evening.

Next blog – “Wrexham – the Reunion Report”

Too much work, and no vacation,
Deserves at least a small libation.
So hail! my friends, and raise your glasses,
Work's the curse of the drinking classes.
~Oscar Wilde