By Marie-Therese Kielty
‘I hate the adverts on TV.’
I’m a pushover.
They had worked their magic spells for Christmas. But I wasn’t ready for the holiday promotions, quite, so I went to put the kettle on at a break in Time Team, safe family viewing, which we were watching, live.
Anyway, off I went innocently enough to make tea, and so it came right out of the blue. In I came, carrying mugs and mince pies, and found them all psyched up, with exchanges as bad as a political broadcast and an atmosphere like the outbreak of war.
Apparently I’d missed an advert for a bargain off-season holiday in Spain.
Absolutely everyone goes there and where do we go? Caravan holidays! In Dunoon! The words were practically spat at me.
I like my wee holiday in Dunoon. I like to knit while the kids paddle or play on the swings and meet new pals. And there are cafes and charity shops – what’s not to like?
But mutiny was on my hands. I could see that even dad was joining the revolution.
‘Aye…sunbathing on thae beaches…I’d get a rare tan…,’ he said dreamily.
Daft gowk! It was the lassies he was thinking of, with those bikinis they were nearly wearing. Fine figure he’d cut in Spain standing in the waves, knotted hanky over his bald head, trousers rolled up, braces on display.
‘What about it mum,’ the kids whined ‘You can bring your knitting.’
But will they have charity shops in Spain? I wondered.
If not, what would I do for a fortnight?
Time Team had started again. No-one was watching. Everybody knew somebody who had been to Spain. Kirsty was talking about Spanish waiters. I didn’t like the sound of that. Teenagers – you have to watch them, even in Dunoon. She can be silly about boyfriends. Another reason not to go.
On the other hand, I could get myself a Gigolo…one of those tall slim dancers who stamp their feet.
That would use up a couple of days.
Then, back to the knitting, I suppose…
Jonathan was talking about bull-fighting. I’m not sure I approve. I don’t want him anywhere near that. He is at that stupid stage.
On the other hand…Toreadors and Matadors. They look so elegant. Would there be many around. Some flighty men liked to chat up vulnerable women of my age, or so I had heard. Could be fun. I could get to like that, since I well knew what their game was.
Well! There went another couple of pleasant days…
And back to the knitting?
This might not be as bad as I feared.
Wee Morven fancied the foreign food. I wasn’t so sure. You knew where you were with mince, tatties, and rice pudding. I made a mental note to pack the diahorrea mixture, and check up on travel insurance.
No, though! I would never forgive myself if my wee one ended up in a foreign hospital with a tummy bug.
I imagined the Spanish doctor looking soulfully into my eyes and saying: ‘We have managed to save her…I know how you must be feeling…Senora…’ as he took my hand in his…
The image pleased me.
I could stay at her hospital bed, cooling her fevered brow, and in between times, sitting knitting while the good-looking Spanish doctors…
Here I was interrupted.
‘Oh, go on, mum. Please mum…’
‘Maybe,’ I said.’ I’ll think about it. Now drink your tea before it gets cold.’
And we returned to Time Team.
Now…I’ll have to think about packing, and what knitting to take with me…