It is holiday season. The garden is, if not entirely under control, less chaotic in parts. It has been left to the tender mercies of ma chère maman and the dog whilst Keith and I esport ourselves in the sun. Instructions have been left about the picking of pears and plums and the watering of seeds. I am advised that both Lachlan and the Aunts have visited mum to monitor the situation in our absence. These visits coincided. Lachlan’s application for sainthood has, he advised, been duly submitted. Whilst awaiting canonisation for services to Aunts, he has purchased new jodhpurs and boots and is rocking the Mr Darcy vibe. I wonder if this means he will take on the weeding of the pond? In other news, Mum has texted to say that Walter has flowered (I can’t believed he waited for me to leave the ungrateful sod) and he is purple.
Keith and I left for Corfu (again – Keith is not a man for innovating when a good hotel has been found…) in ideal holiday weather (it was absolutely bucketing). I cut a dash with my smart new luggage (thanks to the cashing in of some bank loyalty points) and was only slightly bent double by the improbably large stack of books. Keith pranced along with his new barefoot shoes and (in my view) a perilously small stack of books. Anyway, with only minor check in snafus, we were in the air in no time and arrived to clear skies and sunshine. We were by the pool and the first of my books was done and dusted that same day leaving us plenty of time to consult the cocktail list before dinner.
I’m not going to lie, the first day essentially set the pattern for the rest of the holiday. With a day to go I have powered through the forthcoming book club item, the mandatory French one (a corker but I was somewhat unmanned by the ending), two Kate Atkinsons and Zorba the Greek (which was a little odd if I’m honest). I have three books in hand so I think I will be saved from dipping into Keith’s (one about Boswell I’ve already read, a biography of Muriel Spark and three of her slim but pointed novels – an improvement I feel on last year’s Life of Stalin). My eyebrows have bleached white, my nose is freckled and I shall have a creditable tan to hide under the autumn jumpers. And it is not all sloth and decadence. I am up to 30 lengths of he pool a day (fitted around chapter ends). The lifestyle agrees with me I think. The trot back up the hill from the pool (for verily we are right at the top this time) is getting easier and today I even felt the urge for salad rather than ice cream for lunch. The hotel scales maliciously refuse to play ball but I am not disheartened – I have shoved them in the darkest corner of the bathroom and we shall not speak of them again.
Having been here before, I’m experiencing a degree of deja vu. I find myself taking the same photographs, admiring the same favourite bougainvillea (a pale pink that fades to gold) and running my hands along the rosemary hedge at just the same corner for the joy of the smell. Peering in to watch the way the hibiscus on the stairs furls, unfurls and refurls over the course of the day, I feel that if I turn around quickly enough I could laugh with last year’s me about it. The situation is compounded by the fact that the only new thing I bought for the holidays is still languishing in the ironing pile and today’s me is reprising last year’s (and indeed the one before’s) sartorial highlights. Thankfully, Keith is very much the goldfish and at every swimming costume or dinner outfit extracted from the case and he looks startled and asks if it is new. The hotel Manager approves heartily of our return and descended on us as we arrived, arms wide, beaming at the prodigals. She nods conspiratorially at all my breakfast choices. Even the lady in the taverna across the road has recognised us. There’s a reassuring harmony to it all, positively Bach like in the repetition on a theme.
The only fly in the ointment is the recurrence of an ache in my impacted wisdom tooth. The solution is an extraction but that, as the consultant cheerily advised many years ago, will involve maxilla facial surgery as “it’s a bugger.” I usually manage to keep it in check when it flares with brutal antibacterial mouthwash but alas this did not make the washbag. Grinding said tooth in the early hours last night I considered the merits of neat vodka rubbed on the gum (we used that on Keith’s knees when he did a back flip coming down the Seven Sisters). However, the tabu against opening the minibar was too strong. I dosed it with antibacterial hand gel instead. It was, let us say, eyeopening, but it’s a little better today so………
