It wasn't so bad, not being in Greece, but... I'm tired and can't write anything else.Continuing, some weeks later.... And then some more weeks later. For God's sake it's now January.
Basically, going on holiday with anyone else apart from immediate close family (and I have to rule out grandchildren here) never really works. You are always prey to other peoples stuff. And they to yours which kind of spins the tension backwards and forwards like an awkward old washing machine. Clare and Phillip, our friends, (and I use the term loosely as I have not seen Phillip since this trip) are civilised, upper middle class people who discuss everything from death to cups of Earl Grey with quiet self-deprecating English reserve. Frankly, as long as one doesn't shout FUCK OFF CUNT! in their faces it is no trouble at all getting on with them... And yet... One cannot completely relax. Whether on a pedalo, by the pool or choosing a bottle of Primitivo there are always boundaries. Are our children being infuriating at this moment? Does Phillip feel comfortable with the fact that I know he would rather die than go for a swim in the Hotel Pool? Has Clare realised that I think she is quite mad? Wouldn't they be hurt if we said what we really think, that the Hotel Cannero is basically just a super-expensive boarding house with food to match?
Well, yes would be the answer, especially to the last question, since this is the place of their dreams. The cradle of their romance with each other and all things Bella Italiano. As an interesting observation about how people see themselves abroad, Phillip considers himself fluent in Italian. Both me and Queenie were impressed with this until we discovered that this fluency extends to saying hello and being able to order a pizza and barely anything else. I've come across this in other people who have decided that they have a thing for a particular country - nearly always in Southern Europe. It's a sort of English wishful thinking; I may be emotionally constipated and stuck in a cold land, but part of me is Hot and Mediterranean! I rather envy that self-belief; I just feel inadequate and stupid when I'm on holiday and pathetically grateful when tradespeople/hoteliers/restaurateurs are not rude to me. After all, you don't get to meet anyone else do you?
Freddy their son is part of the relaxation problem. He's a very polite boy whom my son gets on very well with, in a slightly Upstairs Downstairs kind of way however he has this killer nut allergy. It's not one of these deals where people say 'I'm lactose intolerant' meaning that cheese makes them fart; it's actually if he has a single Brazil nut, he will die. Traces of pine nuts, cashew nuts, almonds, peanuts, monkey nuts, walnuts, pistachios and quite possibly coconuts, will send him into anaphalyxic (?) shock. He wears an belt containing a stash of syringes and adrenalin for people to plunge direct into his heart. On one occasion me and Queenie found him about to tuck into a choclate bar that whilst not actually being a Snickers bar, was some sort of close cousin.
As you'd imagine meal times could be a bit fraught. Philip and Clare would negotiate with waiters in pidgin Italian and broken English and waiters would answer, baffled, along the lines of 'This eez not a nut deesh... This eez Steak". And eventually the Willets would convince themselves that it probably was OK and Freddy would commence another meal into the unknown. They say the teenage years are the most dangerous time for allergy sufferers as this is when youngsters want to cut loose. They want to eat the same crap as their friends and getting laid is probably less likely when you are wearing some sort of junkie belt of syringes. Hopefully, Freddy will just grow out it. He grew out of an egg allergy previous to the nut allergy (Couldn't make it up, could you?)
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