So I had a weird dream this morning, it was about a car, not my car, but an old friend of mine. She posted yesterday on FaceBook that she had a service light come on. So dutifully this morning I had a two hour dream about how I diagnosed the problem and traced it to a non-existent lithium-ion battery that was next to the main one. This I explained was a ‘common fault’, put a multi-meter on it and showed it was flat. I’m very pleased I’ve managed to provide a very pleasing non-existent service. I’m available for all your vehicular diagnostic needs.
Got up and had a bit of a wander outside the hotel. The man at the gat was very concerned that I wasn’t on a bus and didn’t require a taxi. He kind of pointed out that ‘outside’ there was ‘sod all’, I tried to explain the concept of GeoCaches, but considering it took five minutes to persuade him that he wanted ‘my’ room number and not ‘his’ room number (maybe I was missing a trick there?) I just explained that I was going for a bit of a walk. So GPS in hand I found the location. I realised that I didn’t actually have any maps on the GPS for Turkey, so it was more of a kind of ‘locate the dot’ than any kind of navigation. It was an old church ruin, the only problem was it was down a hell of a steep cliff. In the UK I would have gone for it, knowing that if I tossed it up, one of the fifty air-ambulances that constantly circle Bradley Stoke would be there in a flash. Here in a pair of flip-flops and a vest I feel that if I slipped then a man with a band-aid may turn up in about a week and would want to know where my wallet was before he’d even spit on a piece of cotton wool. I gave it a miss, it was a nice walk anyway. The houses close to the hotel really are very nice, it’s a good area.
I returned to the busy activity of sitting by the pool. Herman the German was in fact Russian, he must have built up all those muscles by working the salt mines. He seemed to disown most of his family, it must be difficult being a teenage boy when all you want to do is read a book about espionage (yes I did translate the title) and listen to shite euro pop (I didn’t need to translate that, I could here it), when your family want to play ‘scrabble’ (how the fuck does that work in Russian?) and go shopping in Bodrum for fake handbags.
Pickfords then moved in. An English couple turned up and decided that the vast number of available sun beds were not in the correct locations. So then spent the next ten minutes dragging the fucking things from one side of the pool to the other. They sat on them, then decided a minutes later that they were not quite at the correct azimuth to the sun, so got up and moved them again. Thirty seconds later they still were not settled, so had one more go. Then finally they got up, packed all their stuff away and disappeared completely, probably in belief that they were in the wrong country and would get a better view of the sun if they were in Greece.
I was getting a bit of a sore bum (inappropriate Speedo’s), so relocated to the bar for a couple of drinks and further studying of ‘air-law’. Basically a small, okay large family of lard turned up (yes they were Russian). They looked through the menu, called the bar man over. The rather rotund lady ordered the stake. Then she ordered another one and said that one wouldn’t be enough, plus a bowl of chips, a large bowl of chips. The food arrived some minutes later, I swear she devoured it in two mouthfuls, without even removing her cigarette. The barman arrived again to remove the plates, the chap sat opposite her, who was half her size, but still as large as a family hatchback, announced that he would like the spaghetti bolognaise… again. The women announced that she wanted four steaks as ‘these are tiny’ and four large bowls of chips. I ordered a large Vodka as this was something to be savoured. It all turned up. She actually piled all four steaks on top one another and ate them as some kind of weird meet sandwich. The chips may have been served in a bucket, she emptied the best part of two bottles of ketchup on them. But it was all fine really, she ordered a diet coke.
I went back to the sun bed. Then we were struck by what can only be described as ‘Kensington syndrome’. Little ‘Arabella’ turned up, with mummy and daddy. She instantly moaned about how awful everything was, why wasn’t there a waiter and if this was Claridges there would be Champagne on ice and someone to gently lick the perspiration off her twat. Her mum looked like she had a Luis Vuitton stuffed full of coke to just get her through the day and poor dad looked like he’d left his soul and sanity back at the point when he wished he wore a condom. She vanished, mum went off with her hand bag and no doubt a straw and dad moved around a few sun beds, knowing no matter where he placed them it wouldn’t be good enough. She returned later in a Bikini, to be honest all those hours spent quaffing frappa-decafe-latte hadn’t done her too bad, she had curves in the right places, her breasts were still defying gravity but then she opened her mouth. “Daddy said if I didn’t date Phillip he’d buy me a new car”. I’m surprised she could tear herself away from her inevitable ‘horsey’. Still, it takes all sorts.
We retired to the hotel room. I fell asleep on the couch, all this hanging around on sun beds doesn’t half take it out of you. We had dinner tonight at the Italian, it really was style over substance, the presentation was fabulous, the food itself was mediocre. The sea bass was within an inch of being welded to the plate.
I’m having terrible bowel problems, eating all this ‘proper’ food is playing havoc with my intestines, I’m backed up worse than the M6.
So we are half way through. Not sure I can cope with any more, I’m missing work, I’m missing stress, I’m missing not going to the gym on a daily basis and running. I’m missing not eating salad. I’m missing not being me.