I’m surprising myself with my ability to find a second post’s worth of chit chat from our lovely lazy holiday and have to dedicate it to that wonderful pastime of people-watching, my favourite holiday activity.
On the whole, this being a smart gaff, the people are very civilised, quiet and stylish and I just love admiring other women’s clothes, bags, children etc. However, around the poolside I’m reminded of a phrase of my husband’s Scottish Auntie Jenny, who used to say, “Aye, the sights you see when you’ve nae got a gun!” That thought passes through my mind when at a neaby sunbed a middle-aged Spanish woman proceeds to merrily pluck away at stray hairs on her thighs with a pair of tweezers. My husband is fearful the plucking might go higher so he turns his bed round a little to focus on some younger totty to his left.
My favourite couple are the two very stylish gay chaps who look fabulous at breakfast and then come down to the pool in their bathrobes, sashaying along as if they are on the Milan catwalk, before disrobing with a swish of their shoulders, to reveal fetching speedos and well-maintained bodies. Wish I could say the same for “strangely-dyed-ginger-haired man” who walks round the pool in a tiny pair of lime green lycra pants which sport a handy zip at the front!
Whilst I’m not averse to snaffling away an apple or two from the breakast buffet to keep us going during the day, one French family just take it a step too far. The wife is dripping in jewellery, tottering on astonishingly high heels and nearly wearing a teeny top from which her siliconed chest makes a determined effort to escape. I reckon she must have spent a fortune on Botox and lip-plumping too. Her husband, with no perception that this really isn’t the done thing, proceeds to butter five baguettes and fill them all with an assortment of meats. He wraps them all up in the hotel’s linen napkins and trophy wife stashes them, with great aplomb, in her white leather statement handbag. My poor husband, who has hoofed it already to Netto and back for a packet of ham and a couple of rolls, can only look on with amazement at the sheer audacity of the whole operation.
Even worse, a carbon copy of Roman Abramovich is strutting around the hotel with an entourage of thick-necked heavies and his young family who are there for his every need. He sits at breakfast with a large glass of lager and his daughter (?) has to fetch and carry for him and even puts his sweater over his shoulders when he’s a bit cold. I’m not awfully good at watching people surreptitiously, (Hubby says I could never be a spy) so I gawp as Roman slurps his lager and plunges his croissant into a mug of cappuccino before shovelling it into his mouth.
Pass me the rifle, Auntie Jenny