1.  Wooden sticks to stir your tea with – whoever thought of that?  They don’t work – you have to stir and stir and stir – and then you can taste wood in your tea.

2.  Foreign Sausages that have meat in them.

3. Hotels, Restaurants and Cafes that provide packed portions of butter, sugar, marmalade, Marmite, salt, pepper and milk and then don’t give you anything to put the empty packaging.  The result, a pile of paper, plastic and wood on your ‘empty’ plate.

4.  People using small ponies to haul their wooden caravan up steep hills.

5.    Hotels that use old photographs on their website to lure you into reserving a room only to find that the said room is damp, badly needs re-modelling and smells of stale urine…….

6.  Frozen Chips

7.  Oven Chips

8.  Non Free Range Chicken ‘farms’.

9.  People who order food by asking if they ‘can get’ ……..

10.  People who, when asked if they would like some tea or coffee reply “I’m fine thanks”.  I wasn’t asking how they were…..

11. Sports ‘news’ – it jus isn’t news yet takes up about half of a news broadcast.

12.  Those little packets of paper handkerchiefs – simply not big enough.

13.  Those oversized packets that contain just one artificial sweetener.

14.  People who litter.

15.  Spammers.

To Be Continued……….

A free supplement appeared with last Sunday’s Telegraph newspaper that gave all kinds of information about Dementia.  On page 5 was a list of nine symptoms of Dementia and it was suggested that the reader should seek help  if he or she:

Struggles to remember recent events, although you can easily recall things that happened in the past

Finds it hard to follow conversations or programmes on TV

Forgets the names of friends or everyday objects

Cannot recall things he or she has heard, seen or read

Finds it difficult to make decisions

Notices that they repeats themselves or loses the thread of what they are saying

Has problems thinking and reasoning

Feels anxious, depressed or angry about their forgetfulness

Finds that other people comment on their forgetfulness.

People suffering from Pernicious Anaemia but were not diagnosed early will identify with most, if not all, of the above.  It is obviously very easy for doctors to listen to a patient who has B12 Deficiency recite all or most of the above and to diagnose Alzheimer’s disease.  It megs the question as to how many patients are being treated for Dementia when they are suffering from lack of Vitamin B12.  I suspect that this is the case with many patients who might have been wrongly diagnosis as suffering from Alzheimer’s.

Anyway – good luck to the Alzheimer’s Society with their Awareness Week.

“What do you mean – how can it be for free?”

“I don’t know” replied my wife, talking as quickly as she could because I was on my mobile in the Canary Islands whilst she was at home.  “She just phoned up and asked to speak to you and told me that there was a large office that needed a tenant and that it was free”.

I didn’t believe it of course.  It was a way of getting the charity to part with money.  Landlords rent offices, they don’t give them away to charities for free.  I was annoyed.  I wanted more information and knew I would have to wait until I got home to investigate the scam.  I returned to the poolside and tried to figure out what this could all be about.

The office that the society rents costs £550 per month although we have been informed that as of this month the rent will increase to £585 per month.  Like most charities we struggle to raise funds and the financial burden of the rent was always a worry.  We need the office because, although I ran the office for two years from my converted garage, the activites that we now undertake are ten times what I used to do.  And we now have two full-time employees (well, sort of have two full-time employees – their salaries are paid for by the Welsh Assembly Government but they work for the society) and until last week when Nic left us to enter into full-time employment, four part-time volunteers.  When we are all in the little office it gets quite crowded and so we stagger the days on which volunteers come in to help.

Her name was Victoria.  I was to telephone a number she had left with my wife to find out more about the ’service we provide’.  Victoria is a solid name.  It’s a name that you can trust.  I was prepared to waste ten minutes by listening to what Victoria had to say.  Now, if she had been a Vicky I might not have ‘phoned.  Think Vicky think  Miss Pollard, Chest Rubs and colds.  I probably wouldn’t have wasted ten minutes talking to Vicky – but Victoria, think Victory, Mrs Beckham and Empire.  I made the call.

It was too good to be true.  I had listened carefully.  The office was a large one situated in the middle of Bridgend (I knew the building) and the only cost to us was one peppercorn a month.  There was obviously a catch.  I promised to call Victoria back after I had thought of it.  She wasn’t pushy.  It didn’t make sense.  When was the “Of course you will have to” bit going to be dropped into the conversation.  Victoria was obviously good at her job.  Everything was positive, there was nothing negative – yet.  I could see through her sneaky way.  I would play along with her.  I would bite when she threw me a morsel but would be prepared to be disappointed when the morsel hid a barbed hook.  She was an angler and I was a trout.  A big lazy brown trout, (on account of me having a tan after wasting two weeks of my life trying to enjoy myself on my own in a over-developed resort in Lanzarote – or Tenerife – they all melt into one).

She was being sneaky and so I would be sneaky.  The next day Kim and I went into Bridgend town centre to bank some cheques.  On an impulse (because I am like that – you never know what I will do next which to some makes me an interesting character and to others makes me unpredictable and dangerous), I turned to Kim who was walking some way behind me.  I have noticed that about her.  She always walks a few paces either in front or behind me.  Except when there is nobody about.  Then she walks by the side of me.  I think she is embarrassedto be with me and keeps enough distance between us to lead people to believe that we are not together.  Yet at the same time she manages to keep the distance just wide enough to be able to talk to me without looking at me.  I would mention it to her but nothing would come of it and I’d get one of her looks.  She’s as clever as a bunch of monkeys is that one.  A convoluted character who eats Laughing Cow cheese spread on toast and peels oranges in her pockets – enough said.  Anyway, I turned to Kim (who was walking that little bit behind me) and said “let’s go and take a look at the office we are being given for free”.  I said this in a sarcastic voice.  “Alright then” she replied and off we went to explore the catacombs of Brackla House.

Brackla House

It didn’t go well.  We walked into the office of a large firm of solicitors before being advised of the correct entrance.  In we went.  We went to the third floor – I was sure that was the floor that sneaky Victoria had told me the offices were located.  Up we went to the third floor.  There was one door on the right that led to offices that were obviously occupied.  To the left was another office in which a few maintenance men were carrying out work.  We went in.  It was enormous.  The office we rent in Aberkenfig is 350 sq.ft.  This was 3,500 sq.ft. at least.  I confidently informed the workmen that we were thinking of renting the office and asked if it would be ok to lookaround.  They consented and Kim and I began to imagine what we could do with such a cavernous premises.  We were dreaming of conferences and seminars that would cost nothing to host.  We could have our support group here.  We could have another conference without having to worry about the cost of hiring a room.  We were giddy on potential and drunk on possibilities.  She even walked by the side of me.  We thanked the workmen and left.

‘Please call Victoria’ said the post-it note that gave Victoria’s telephone number.  I sighed, and dialled the number.  “Hi Martyn” she said (we were on first name terms by now).  “I’m going to send you a draft contract by email.  If you wish you can show it to a solicitor but it’s so simple you probably won’t need to.  Just take your time and have a read”.  My email bleeped and I opened the attachment from Victoria.

There was obviously a catch but I couldn’t find it.  It stated quite clearly that the landlord would allow us to occupy the office for a maximum of five months three weeks and six days (so that we didn’t have any other legal bindings) and that we were to pay the landlord the sum of one peppercorn per month.  If the landlord found a tenant prepared to rent the office then we were to be given one month’s notice to quit, and if that happened within the first three months of us occupying the office then the landlord would compensate the society by paying it £1,000.  I couldn’t  find the catch.  It was all very confusing.  “time to find the landlord” I told Kim.  We set off for the new offices (well, we thought we would join in this little fantasy by calling it the new offices).  We went back to the room with the workmen.  “Is the caretaker about?” I asked.

Empty Office

“He is around somewhere.  He’s wearing a red top” said the man in charge.  “We are refurbishing this for Remploy” he replied when I asked him if they had much work left to do.  There – it was out of the bag.  The offices were for Remploy and not us.  Our hopes were dashed and we started down the stairs.  Then, she spotted him.  A tall figure wearing a red top.  She was after him like a rat down a drainpipe.  She was like a ferret after a rabbit.  She squealed “excuse me, are you the caretaker?”  He was on the stairs a floor below us.  Kim was leaning over the handrail.  He stopped.  Slowly he looked up.  His eyes met hers.

“No, I’m not the caretaker” said the tall man with the red top.  “I’m the owner”.

There was an uneasy silence that lasted 1.67th of a second.  Kim spoke next.  “We would like to look at some offices you have for rent” she said, wearing the same look.

“Ah, yes, of course” said the man as he turned around and started to climb the stairs towards us.  “They are on the fourth floor”.  Of course they were, Victoria had stated that in the draft contract.  Why  was I looking on the third floor?

His name was Michael and I quickly explained about Victoria and the contract.  “Oh yes” he said.  “I remember it now;  are you a registered charity?” he asked.  I replied that we were and he led the way to the fourth floor and into an office that was twice the size, no, three times the size of the office we had mistakenly thought was going to be ours.  It was and is cavernous.  We chatted and then I found out how the scheme operated, bit by bit.

First in - the chair

It transpires that the UK government passed an act just over a year ago that overturned a ruling whereby landlords of empty premises didn’t have to pay Business Rates on the unoccupied offices.  This meant that landlords who couldn’t rent out office space were now not only denied monthly rent but had to pay the quite substantial business rates on the empty property.  However, if the office space was over a certain size – i.e. big – and the landlord allowed a charity to occupy the premises for free, they would not have to pay the many thousands of pounds in Business Rates to the local authority.  So, by allowing us to occupy the premises the landlord would save thousands and thousands of pounds and we get rent-free accommodation.  It’s a win/win situation.  Kim was now wearing her ‘I know exactly what is going on here’ look.

So there you have it.  How the society now occupies an enormous office that doubles as a conference room for free.  Michael has been incredibly helpful as has the concierge Gerald.  When we were giving the keys I opened the door to find a letter on the floor from Victoria wishing us well for the future and hoping everything turns out well for us.  It has.

Thanks to Kim for all her hard work in making the move happen and for disinfecting the kitchen (we have a large kitchen complete with all appliances as part of the deal) and for her patience and for saving the life of that woodlouse. My thanks also to Victoria and the team at Avire.  If you are looking for free office space, and you are a registered charity try giving them a call.  Tel: 01295 256338
Fax: 01295 256481          E-mail: enquiries@avire.co.uk

Now, as it stands, the society employs two young ladies to carry out the admin – Kirsty and Kim.  Then we have Jan who volunteers two days a week (Tuesday and Wednesday), Lyn who looks after the accounts on Monday mornings.  Then there’s Sue who pops in when she has time and tidies up (moves things)  and Jane who likes to help out when she can.  So as you can imagine, the office is a busy place most days.  But even with everybody in there is still some spare room.  We have 344 sq ft. of space.  The new office we have been offered (for just £1 per month) is – wait for it – a staggering 4,700 sq ft.  That’s over thirteen and a half times bigger than what we are currently used to.  We have to give a month’s notice to our current landlord but I hope that he won’t charge us for the notice period.  This will be my first job on Monday – telling the landlord we will be leaving.

The new office

There are already plans for the new office.  Because it is so big it has three foldable room dividers that can be used to partition off whole sections.  One such section would make an ideal Seminar room, and if all the partitions are opened there is enough room for a small conference to be held.  It is certainly bigger than the room we hired for the Spring Conference held this year in Bryngarw House.  It’s an excellent resource that we will only have to pay for the cost of heating the room.  I have already instructed Kim and Kirsty to buy some thick wooly jumpers in prearation for next winter.

The Conference Begins

The second spring conference that took place on March 13th was judged to be highly successful – not by me and the other organisers but by those who attended. The evaluation forms have been analysed and out of the seventy seven forms that were completed seventy five stated that the conference had ‘completely met my needs’. The other two forms stated that the conference had ‘partly met my needs’.This was not the milestone that was reached. Two local GPs and one Dentist attended the event – one of the doctors is a sufferer and member. And chatting to the medical professionals after the main conference had ended, they all said that they had not only enjoyed the conference but had learned from being part of the event.My thanks to all those who helped make the event such a success.

Groupwork at the conference - to answer the Minister for Health's letter

 Here’s to next time 

It has begun.  It’s the beginning of two weeks in the sun that I will have to endure to ensure that my psoriasis disappears for another eighteen months.  This is package holiday land that is refreshingly low on price and correspondingly low on quality.  I expect to meet many people who I will have nothing in common with and who will irritate me and amuse me.  I know what to expect – I’ve done too many of these little jaunts to embark on this little adventure with any optimism and enthusiasm.  I have a simple plan.  I will, on every available opportunity observe the behaviour and antics of my fellow holidaymakers from the shadows.  I will lurk, skulk and hide from the rest of humanity and carry out my surveillance covertly while I play the part of a loner: a sad loner: a sad lonely overweight middle-aged man who keeps himself to himself, reads far too much, and displays mildly eccentric behaviour.

This is going to be hell but I shall persevere with my self-inflicted cure for my mild skin condition and relax at the same time.  I have given up hope of my wife being able to find a cheap flight that flies out of and into the Cardiff and so will have fourteen days of solitude.  I will write a little every day about the various activities at the hotel, the inevitable characters and anything else that might possibly be of interest to anyone else.  Should I be able to find a wireless network that doesn’t cost as much as the flight out there I will be posting this on my blog where, hopefully, others might take a passing interest in my tale and while away an hour or two reading my adventures when they should be doing something far more constructive.

The holiday hell has already begun.  It meant a four o’clock alarm call and a forty-five minute drive in the dark to the airport.  The drop-off went without incident with Cheryl promising she will look for a cheap flight and will not hesitate to book the flight providing it is in and out of the same airport (preferably Cardiff or Bristol) and it departs and arrives during daylight hours.  She won’t find one, but she will continue to look.  But she won’t find one.

And so – to check in. Having picked up my ticket from the Tommy Cooky desk I identify the two long queues for the Arrecife check-in desks.  But wait!  What’s this?  A third check-in desk has nobody in front of it.  It’s the Tommy Cooky Priority Desk.  With a sign stating that, if you purchase extra legroom seats you can use that check-in desk.  To the desk where I was issued with a sort of chitty that I had to take to the Tommy Cooky Desk (not the Tommy Cooky check-in Desk but the desk from where I had picked up my ticket).  I paid her £30 and she gave me another chitty that I then took to the Tommy Cooky check-in desk and handed over said chitty to the lady behind the desk with a flourish that only Tommy Cooky Priority Passengers can execute.  The stares of the other queuing passengers made the back of my neck burn.

I walked up the stairs and straight through security almost forgetting to take my laptop out of my rucksack.  I have a great rucksack that I have had for around fifteen years.  I bought it when Timberland opened a surplus shop in the designer outlet near where I live.  It is made of really thick, but light, waterproof cotton with a leather bottom with some more leather on the strong, adjustable straps.  It has two really useful pockets on the outside one above the other with a little net pocket on the door of the bottom pocket.  The top pocket is perfect for holding my wallet and passport.  The bottom one holds my phone, charger and usually my little survival kit that I take when I’m out walking – but that has been ditched because of the knives and other sharp items.  The bag is big enough to take a 15” Laptop, can effortlessly carry four litres of duty-free spirits and has been used to carry things that somehow wouldn’t fit into a bag that looks twice as big.  It is a tardis of a bag and it has never let me down or failed to surprise me.  Wherever I have been in the past fifteen years it has gone with me.

I passed through security quickly and made my way to the airside lounge.  Since my last visit (about a month ago) no improvements have been made and so there was still just two places where I could sit that were near an electrical socket that I would need to charge my laptop.  I chose the chair in the coffee bar where I ordered a cup of tea that appeared quickly – well, a mug of hot water with an economy tea bag in it.  I squeezed as much flavour from the tiny little bag as I could and then stirred in one sachet of sugar and stirred it with an anorexic lollipop stick.  The tea tasted of wood.  It cost £1.80.

As my laptop charged I played three games of Solitaire and lost all three.  Well not lost, didn’t complete.  Then I started the people-watch game.  Whoa!  I was in real new trainer land here.  I have never fully understood why, when people go on holiday, they are overcome by some base need to buy a new pair of trainers.  But wait – there is a new take on this phenomenon.  The trainers have been replaced by what can only be described as plimsoles; just like the ones you had in junior school.  There were white, shining white, gleaming white plimsoles.  This is obviously a fashion trend to match other summer fashion trends such as three quarter trousers worn by middle-aged men a couple of summers ago.  I let that fashion faux pas pass me by and the plimsoles fad will suffer from the same standpoint. 

Tommy Cooky’s guests include the usual cross section of life.  The family with two children who you know the names of within seconds of meeting them; “Jack you little shit, come ‘ere”: “Brandy stop annoying that man” (usually said with an approving smile).  There’s the gaggle of young ladies with pink cowboy hats and t-shirts that announce they are part of a hen-weekend party, or, more probably as it’s a Sunday, a hen-week party.  The t-shirts also boldly state where the bride to be and her entourage will be celebrating the last days of her being single.  I never understand why they do this.  There’s a group of middle-aged men sporting golfing clothes who were drinking pints of beer and talking loudly (this is at five-thirty in the morning.  There are the infirm passengers in wheelchairs, the family with two teenagers who should obviously be in school but whose parents have taken advantage of off-peak holiday prices to take the family away for a holiday in the sun.  Education comes second to drop and flop to these people and their prioritising is probably correct.  The rest of the passengers are either late middle-aged or elderly.  I am not the youngest by far, but I am the only solo traveller.  

The flight is eventually called and as I make my way to gate four I note the aircraft is an Airbus 320 – the smallest in Mr Cook’s fleet.  I will be glad of the extra legroom I booked.  Then we go through the ignominy of the ‘boarding by seat numbers’ that allow the people supervising the loading to hurl orders to those waiting to board using their best Nuremburg Rally voices.  The also order the passengers to place their boarding cards in their passport on the page containing your photograph.  These orders are delivered with a tenor that threatens all manner of retribution if the order is not complied with.  One elderly couple approached the three despatchers only to be turned back because their seat numbers were not in the group of seats currently being loaded.  This sent one of the despatchers reaching for the PA microphone and, in a loud, annoyed and disbelieving voice once again heralded what row number were currently being loaded.  I choose my word carefully – loaded and not board or embark.  These one hundred and seventy people were being ordered around and generally deemed to be no higher than pieces of freight.  They may wear blazing white daps but they are probably hard working or have spent most of their lives working hard.  It fills me with despair how people are treated by most package holiday companies.  I once was ordered to get in line when returning to the U.K. by a young woman in a silly hat and a high vis jacket.  These two items of clothing alone can turn a polite customer focussed agent into a commandant with little or no patience and no regard for the dignity of others.  But it is the two-way radio that transforms the commandant into a true tyrant of the young, the old and those who think that such behaviour is part of the holiday experience.  When I was shouted at I quietly approached her and said in a calm but firm voice “Please do not shout at me as if I am a farm animal”.  She was genuinely shocked and almost dropped her radio.  Three people behind me exclaimed “good for you” loud enough for her to hear.  I never saw that same dictator again but perhaps she will be waiting to greet me when I return in two weeks’ time.

SUNDAY

I was not on the ‘Transfer List’ at the airport which meant I would have to find my own way to the hotel.  I found the taxi rank and the ten minute ride cost €10.  The hotel is a complex or aparthotel which is promising as these do not usually live up to clients’ expectations.  I was told that the room wouldn’t be ready for another two hours.  I had experienced this before.  They try to allocate last minute bookers like myself to the rooms that need renovating thus keeping their best rooms for their repeat guests and those who paid full price by booking well in advance.  I waited ten minutes and, when she was occupied with another guest approached her colleague and told him I wanted to check in.  He immediately gave me a room which is large, contains a fridge and cooker, a three-seat settee, two highly uncomfortable high back chairs, a table, a coffee table, a one seat lounge chair (the ones that have a cushion that slides beneath you when you sit on it at any angle other than ninety degrees), a sideboard and two single beds (with about eight inches separating them.  The room is quiet and spotlessly clean.  There is a small bathroom attached with a half decent shower.  All bodes well. 

The afternoon was taken up with buying, in order of priority, Cockroach Spray, Mosquito Spray, Water and ice cubes.  All sourced at the on-site shop.  I wandered down the hill and found a couple of bars all of which were broadcasting football matches to enthusiastic gangs of customers.  I went back to the hotel (we’ll call it a hotel even if it is an aparthotel) and went to the shop.  A sign in the window informed me that it closed at 2 pm on Saturdays and Sundays – the two days when most guests arrive.

I ate dinner in the restaurant and, although the quality was not brilliant, there was plenty of choice and I ate well.  I retired, watched two episodes of Fawlty Towers and started watching The Piano before the need for sleep took over.  I slept for twelve hours.

MONDAY

I awoke to find clear blue skies and the temperature was already well into the seventies.  I ‘phoned the office but there was nobody there.  I used Skype as there is wireless internet access available for just one euro for fifteen minutes.  I asked at reception what the hourly rate was.  He looked at me in a confused manner and told me four euros.  Then to breakfast – where things started to go wrong; badly wrong.  I have never been to a restaurant where I have had to find somewhere quiet to sit in order to regain my senses.  The majority of guests here are Spanish.  I don’t know what part of Spain they are from but they are all elderly – well, late sixties.  They move around in groups of between ten and twenty and they talk.  Boy do they talk.  I watched one group on Sunday night.  There were twelve of them and at one point seven of them were speaking at the same time.

I went to breakfast.  Now the restaurant, Restaurante Latino, is more a cafeteria.  It is a very large room with no carpet.  It has no curtains and the walls are bare.  This means that the noise made by somebody dropping a fork gets bounced off the walls and is amplified.  Now fill the room with a hundred chattering Spaniards and you can only guess at the amount of noise that is created.  And this is what happened at Breakfast.  The noise of the constant chattering, laughter, clanking of plates and the jangle of cutlery all combined to make the most awful cacophony that led to me rushing my breakfast and finding solace in a corner of the hotel where it was relatively quiet.  I had never had such a noisy eating experience.  The noise around the coffee machines was worst.  You see, there may have been two hundred people in the cafeteria; but it housed just two coffee machines.  The queue stretched back to twenty people, most of whom held two coffee cups because they didn’t want to queue for a second cup.  The result was a line of twenty people moaning and desperately watching the person at the head of the queue filling his or her cup.  It must have taken twenty minutes from joining the queue to getting a cup of insipid coffee.  I didn’t bother and contented myself with the weak orange juice.

I hired a car with the intention of going to a beach further west on the island.  I had been to the beach before and it was one of a series of beaches in the area called Papagayo.  Papagayo forms part of an area of environmental protection and is stunningly undeveloped.  The beach I was heading for was Puerto Muellas – port of the molars – as in teeth.  I had approached the car hire lady who was to be found in reception but she told me she had no cars and so I walked one hundred yards to a car hire place I had passed the previous day.  I hired the cheapest car and, after some difficulty, managed to get my legs into it.  Then I headed off East first of all to visit the Lanzarote Airport Museum.  I have this theory that, if someone has gone to the trouble of creating a museum, we have the duty to visit it – no matter how small.  The museum was actually housed in the old airport building that had been deserted when the new airport terminal was built twenty years ago.  Entrance was free and I don’t think they had many visitors.  When I entered a small dapper German asked for my name so that he could enter it into the visitors’ book.  I couldn’t help noticing that the last visitor had been on Wednesday – today was Monday.   I spent half an hour wandering around the static displays and reading the photographs of the first aircraft to visit the island, the first mail plane and the first passenger flights.  All interesting – but only to an air enthusiast.  Then it was off to the beach on the Lanzarote equivalent of a motorway – the Lz2 which is a perfectly well maintained, efficient if uneventful road.  I found the road to Papagayo which is nothing more than a dirt track.  It ruins normal car suspension systems and you have to pay €3 for the privilege.  The car park to the beach I was visiting was outside an area that was intended to be a touring caravan park.  The entire infrastructure is there on a four acre site.  Every pitch had water and electricity hook-ups, and every space is clearly marked.  There is a large shower and toilet block and tarmac roads.  Why it was never used I don’t know – probably because the government had slapped an environmental protection order on it.

I spent four hours at the beach burning and then went straight back to the hotel.  I had to travel through Peurto Del Carmen and realised that I had been there before.  I found the hotel and returned the car.  Then it was time to shower and change before going for dinner.

Dinner starts at 6:30.  By 6:25 a small gathering had appeared around the entrance to the restaurant.  People of all nationalities stood, looking slightly embarrassed, staring at the entrance door.  6:30 came and people, including myself, started looking at their watches.  Some of the present started to tut-tut.  When the time reached 6:34 it proved too much for two German ladies who were at the front of the group and had started the movement toward the doors.  One of them pulled at the door and wrenched it open.  A waiter who stood the other side of the door pulled the door back.  The German lady then pulled it open again, and the waiter, said something loudly in Spanish and reclaimed control of the door.  The two of them, the German lady and the waiter, stared at each other through the glass of the door.  It was a classic stand-off situation.  The crowd fell silent.  After twenty seconds the Waiter opened the door and ushered everyone in.  The German ladies glared at him as they went past.  The waiter held his head high and stared into space.

TUESDAY.

I spent the day wandering around the town.  It took me two hours to walk from one end of the resort to the other.  There must be a thousand little shops selling the usual tourist souvenirs – some are of good quality most are the usual tack that is found in highly developed resorts.  Some of the merchandise is downright vulgar – especially the messages on some of the t-shirts on sale.  I returned to the hotel via a couple of bars and entered the reception only to find around a hundred elderly Spanish couples queuing to check in to the hotel.  The all seemed to have some similarities.  The ladies all had perfectly coiffured hair and were all of or around the same height.  The men wore grey trousers and perfectly tailored shirts – although the shirts were of different colours.  The noise was deafening as they all seemed to be talking excitedly at the same time.  They laughed and chattered away while patiently waiting their turn to check in.  I couldn’t help wondering what was going on.  They were obviously a party, a very large party, and they were all of the same age group as the people who must have obviously left earlier in the day.  At dinner the noise was unbearable, but I seemed to be the only person who noticed.  Everyone else in the refectory was having a swell time, laughing and chattering noisily.  One couple were so happy that they were dancing arm in arm. 

I ate even quicker than usual and returned to my room to read.

It was around nine o’clock that I heard music.  Not the usual rock or disco music but proper music, played in strict time by, what sounded like, a real band.  I had to investigate.  The music floated on the still night air and shrouded the hotel in a cloak of harmonies and strict tempo.  I female voice slid through the cloak and peppered the air with refrains that haunt me still.  I followed the sounds until I came across a large building covered in beautiful blazing red climbing flowers.  The bouquet of the flowers mixed with the music and they complemented each other perfectly.  I peeked inside and saw one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen.  The large ballroom was brilliantly lit with a magnificent glitter ball that shone tiny rays of light around the brilliantly white walls.  A small stage housed a ten piece band together with a female vocalist.  A conductor waved his arms enthusiastically whilst keeping one eye on the attendees.  On the dance floor a hundred elderly couples danced cheek to cheek rotating around the room with amazing precision.  The men wore their open necked shirts whilst the ladies, all with still perfectly coiffured hair, moved elegantly around the floor in the arms of their partners.  Whilst this spectacular was beautiful in itself, the most beautiful aspect had nothing to do with the music, the dancing or the lights.  The most beautiful part was that everyone there on the dance floor was wearing the most beautiful, serene smile.  Nobody spoke.

WEDNESDAY

An uneventful day.  Everybody seems to be settling in to a routine.  I decided to go to Arrecife for the day using the excellent public transport system.  I queued for around five minutes with twenty other people and hopped on the bus paying just one euro twenty cents.  Ten minutes later I got off the bus with everyone else – I was at the other end of the resort, same place as I had been yesterday.  I had caught the wrong bus. 

I decided to walk back to the hotel.  It was a misty day and so I didn’t wear a hat.  I stopped off at a cafe for an hour and talked to a couple from North Wales.  He assured me that there would be the first ever St. Patrick’s Day parade ever held on the island at just after 12.  At one o’clock I left them and half way back I discovered that there would indeed be a parade – but at 4.  It took just over one and a half hours to get back to the hotel and when I arrived I realised that I had burned myself badly.  My right leg, nose and forehead were bleeding.  I hadn’t worn a hat because it was so misty – but I burned all the same.  I have nearly finished my first book – the second collected series of Somerset Maugham’s short stories.  I intend to finish it tomorrow.

THURSDAY

This was the most boring day yet.  I am hobbling around, in quite considerable pain. Because of the blisters on my feet caused by the new walking sandals that I brought with me that I hadn’t ‘broken in’.  There is nowhere in this hotel that is quiet.  Everywhere you go there are groups of people all chattering away – very loudly.  If I walk into the resort there is continual boom-boom music; and Heart FM – the heart of London – seems to be the preferred radio station to be foisted on customers of almost every bar. 

Thankfully there is one place where I can peruse the Telegraph and attempt the crossword without having my audio senses battered by some disco-jockey wishing for better things.  It’s a tiny little restaurant/café run by an elderly Spanish man who is probably as bemused as me why potential patrons pass his little sanctuary on their way to ‘Jugs’ bar or ‘The Swingers’ or ‘Topless’.  Anyway, I shall be retiring there again.

Yesterday (Thursday) as I am unable to sunbathe (my right leg is just a mass of puss covered sores caused by sunburn, my nose is like a pineapple that has been torched and my forehead is a mass of scabs and bright red dried blood) and I am unable to walk far, I caught the bus into Arrecife.  Once there I hobbled around in considerable pain before calling it a day and heading back here.  So I found a bar where at least they played music I had heard of and finished off my book.  Of all Somerset Maugham’s short stories, The Verger is my favourite.  I kept it until last.  Now it is Pillars of the Earth which, I am told, is an excellent read.

Today I shall do nothing but write and read.  Ho Hum.  Halcyon days.

Friday – nothing happened

Saturday – nothing hapened

Sunday – even quieter than Saturday

Monday – it rained for all of ten minutes.  Then, nothing happened

Tuesday - back to nothing happening

I give up

I want to go home

Yesterday I went to my local Renault garage to ask them to investigate a judder that happens when I release the clutch.  I now have a private number plate – B12 MVH (my middle name is Vaughan – I know, sad eh?).  The owner of the garage was manning the reception desk as they were short-staffed, probably because of the snow.

He giggled at the number plate when he was booking the car in.  ”I’ve got B12 at home” he said.

“Do you have Pernicious Anaemia?” I asked.

“Oh no, it’s not for me”.

“Your wife?”  I asked.

He laughed.  ”No, no, no;  It’s for my horses”.

“Your horses?”

“Yes, I own racehorses.  I give them all a shot of B12 every few months”.

“Why?”

“It perks them up no end” he replied.  ”One of them was continually trying to eat soil.  He was a new horse and I knew immediately that he was B12 deficient.  I gave him a shot and he stopped eating soil”.

“Where do you get the B12 from?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

“From the vet”.

“Do you notice a difference in the horses once they have been injected?”

“Oh yes.  They are much more lively and more compliant”

Ah well…… it’s good to know that horses get adequate treatment.

I do not understand why Johnny Foreigner has such a problem with making and presenting a cup of tea; it is, after all, an international beverage with universal appeal. Go anywhere south of Dover and you are immediately forced into abandoning the most civilised of brews and adopting ugly coffee as your preferred refreshment; not out of choice but because tea that is served abroad has only one common feature that it shares with a domestic cuppa and that is its name.

Whilst you can anticipate that once you leave the White Cliffs behind you will not get a decent cup of tea until you return to the sceptred isle it is most disturbing to find that repugnant continental and north American attitudes towards tea in general, and the making of it in particular, are embedding themselves in British institutions – the rail service for one. It’s a disgrace.

Making a cup of tea is not difficult. You need boiling water – that means water that is or has just been boiling. Not water that is really hot or water that has been boiled. I remember explaining this to a really helpful waiter in a Cracker Barrel restaurant in the U.S. to whom I explained that in order for the tea to release its true flavour it has to be scalded. Only boiling water will release the full flavour of the tea and water that is any less than boiling will simply turn into a weak version of a true cuppa. That’s it. The only rule you must follow. Pour boiling water onto tea leaves or a tea bag, though why anyone wants to taste paper in their tea is beyond me. You can pour the boiling water onto tea leaves in a cup, or in a kettle or, preferably, into a warmed tea pot (metal ones should be avoided as they go cold quickly). That’s it – just one rule to follow – pour boiling water onto the tea.

I am on a train. I have just been parted from £1.30 that I gave to the man in the buffet car in exchange for a cup of tea – albeit a cup of tea served in a paper cup and with the now ubiquitous strip of wood that serves as a stirrer. I knew what to expect. It would be less than perfect but hey, compromises have to be made when travelling at 125m.p.h. I could see the steaming shining stainless steel tap that rose out of the kitchen worktop. I could hear it hissing as pressurised steam escaped from it. £1.30 was a price well worth paying for a jolly good hot cup of tea. I took my eye off the ball after I had ordered and was presented with a paper bag that held the tea. I popped in the stirrer and one of those fiddly sachets of sugar and paid the man.

I made my way back to my seat and took out the cup that had a plastic lid on it. I set it out on the table and sat back to let the tea stew. After five minutes waiting I could hold back no more and I took off the lid. I was greeted by a cup of hot water. No tea. No teabag. Just a cup of hot water. Peering into the paper bag I found a teabag. I dropped it in the water and sighed. Can you imagine that happening ten years ago? It is time to make a stand. If you get such service don’t do what I didn’t have the guts to do – ask for a refund!

The idea began as a germ when I met with Mary Southcott back in the beginning of the summer. “Madeline Moon suggested that we could hold a Parliamentary Reception” she told me, on a train to London. Mary works within the Palace of Westminster and knows many influential M.P.s and government ministers. She had met Madeline the previous week and sought to enlist the help of Madeline.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s just that. We hold a Reception for M.P.s and try and get them along so that we can tell them about the problems that our members are experiencing.
“Why should they attend?”
“Well, what you could do is to get your members to write to their M.P. and ask him or her to attend the Reception. That way they might feel obliged to attend?” said Mary.
I taught academic politics for twenty years, was an examiner for A-Level Government and Politics and had been a campaign manager for prospective holders of public office. Yet I had never heard of a Parliamentary Reception. Mary’s eyes twinkled. “We could even get an Early Day Motion tabled and ask our members to ask their M.P. to sign it.
I knew what an Early Day Motion (E.D.M.) was and is. Basically it is a call made by a backbencher
who calls for a motion (or subject) to be debated at an “early day” – that is in the very near future. They stand almost no chance whatsoever of being debated in full by the House of Commons, but they can be used to gather support of backbenchers to a cause. I knew that if we could get ten, maybe twenty, backbench M.P.s to support an E.D.M. then it would be grist to our mill.
“Who could we get to table the E.D.M?” I naively asked.
“We could get my daughter’s M.P., he knows of her plight and the difficulty she has had in getting diagnosed. Indeed she is still not diagnosed”.
I knew that we were onto something.
And so the scene was set for the society to get, for the first time, an enquiry into the Symptoms, Diagnosis and Treatment of Pernicious Anaemia reviewed. We agreed that the Review I had published would form the basis of the E.D.M. and we would make arrangements for the Parliamentary Reception to be held.
And so it was that, for the greater part of the summer of this year I was preoccupied with organising the E.D.M. and Reception. Liaising with Madeline and Mary was not easy as both are very busy people. But slowly, the plot came together and our members were involved in asking them to write to their M.P. using a template of a letter that we produced. We then produced a Fact-sheet to brief M.P.s about our cause, then produced a Statement written by me, and we then started to compile a list of ‘Pub-Facts’ that could be used as sound bites to gather interest in our cause.