“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter” – Martin Luther King Jr.
This quote (I subscribe to a writing site Medium.com) caught my attention today:
There are many folks who feel their lives are ending right now and silence is becoming the accepted norm. I have no interest in politics; my years of silence having been indoctrinated and imposed upon me from birth, ‘big boys don’t cry’; ‘don’t say that be quiet’; ‘be seen and not heard’; ‘change the subject’. These were all part of growing up. It took me ten years to share, with another the abuse at the hands of the babysitter. I was told masturbation was bad and sent you blind. Kerry, my first wife, told me once; “now you have me you don’t need to masturbate” and then proceeded to withhold sex unless I had ‘done as I was told’, and not annoyed her. She physically abused me (twice I called the police) for over thirty years and openly ‘gaslighted’ me, as did her family, and latterly my own children who were following the corporate family line – my daughter living rent free in a house owned by her grandmother and my son receiving £1,800 pcm to help their thinking. Throughout it all I stayed silent, but it was destroying me from the inside out, I would take any drug, or find a new project to immerse myself in, do anything to ease the pain until seven years ago. Then ……
Sunday 3rd January 2021: 'Let's pause for a minute and realise that patience is your virtue. It's the moments you let go, the ones you rush through, that tend to hurt you … Just take your time’ [Faithless – All Blessed] plays in the background.
I did rush it through, and It fucking hurt me to the tune of £650.00, ouch. This time it was Colin, ‘I need somewhere to write’ who got it wrong. Harold left on Sunday, Lambo was meant to share his bus to the airport but all he saw was the rear lights in the distance, five minutes earlier than the leave time. He sat dejected in the hotel lobby as had planned to hire a car (the airport was half the price of a Hertz delivery to the hotel), for a week and explore further. A German couple, with suitcases, join him in the lobby. “Are you expecting a bus to the airport”, he enquirers. They nod. Five minutes later a bright blue coach (Tui emblazoned on the side), arrives and the driver sees to the luggage. Lambo finds a seat and arrives at the airport twenty minutes later.
One hour later, driving another five gear Toyota Aygo car, I am back at my hotel, map in hand and ready to find a new home; one well away from tourists and somewhere I can write. First job is to cut short my stay – I booked for a month – and hopefully get a full refund agreed before finding somewhere else. Second job is to contact Helga my new found Austrian friend who has an apartment to let. Hotel agrees to a refund and the following morning I head south, over the mountains and compliment myself on having cycled half of the journey ten days earlier. Helga is not aware of my arrival as I wish to explore the surrounding before viewing the flat. I am immediately put off by the short but winding entrance road thinking aloud, “I wouldn’t wish to cycle along here on a dark night”, as I arrive at the door. I also noticed a few cats and the lack of a sea view. I left and returned to the main road just as a bunch of MAMIL’s cycled past.
Middle Aged Men in Lycra they were not, these guys were fit – a few had ITALIA and some SWEDEN printed on their backs and legs. The bikes looked very expensive. Where were they going? I followed them and parked by the hotel entrance. I enter the reception of La Playitas sports resort. “Please may I help you” I hear from reception. “How does she know I am English”, I say to myself before looking at my attire and then understanding why. “Please may I use your toilet?,” I respond knowing (have used such a ploy many times) it will get me a closer look behind the scenes. I return to reception and inquire as to availability and prices. I am redirected to their web site; playitas.org only to quickly close it after seeing to prices which start at 100 euro per night for self-catering and 145 a night for half board. Even will all the sports facilities and classes it is way out of my budget so back to my car but decide to walk along the front. I find myself in a small village with no pubs, no Lego, two shops, two restaurants and a tiny harbour. This would be perfect, with a sea view even, for writing, I think to myself.
“This is perfect for writing, with a sea view” I scream to myself as the description fills my screen on the Air B&B website and at £45.50 a night – for a one bed flat with air con, balcony, and sea view – it is perfect. Colin is very excited and wants to book it. Lambo meanwhile is silent and thinks we should not rush matters, “Colin take your time, It's the moments you rush through, that tend to hurt you”. He ignored me and booked it for a month paying £1,355 up front.
Wednesday 6th January 2021. My first thought, as we moved into the flat, centered around why a washing machine, fixed to a broken plug and a four-foot extension lead, would be in the bedroom and it being a little odd the bedroom opening directly onto the street and – as the bike store was no longer available – my bike needed parking next to the bed. I thought it strange the bathroom was reached by going through the kitchen and lounge, the hot water (small cylinder above the toilet) needed turning on for ten minutes before use. The power shower had no power, but the trickle was warm enough. By 1800h it was cold and felt damp so I turned on the air con and hoped for some heat. No response and not a heater to be found. I go to bed early but the bed is so damp I need a shirt and a warm blanket. I fall into a horrible sweaty sleep. I wake, the sun is not shining (it is, but nowhere near me) and realise the balcony is West facing, so no sun till late afternoon at best. “That’s why it’s so fucking damp”. I turn on the kettle but the plug goes bang and I see sparks. The owner is informed; who arrives, (a lady in her 80’s I recon and speaks no English), just as the air-conditioning unit starts dripping water over the plugs, (a single extension lead with four sockets in the middle of the worktop) controlling the fridge, microwave and kettle. The entire flat is now without power which is further complicated by the trip switch being in a different flat following the conversion – they made two flats out of one – last year.
Four hours later a heating engineer arrives and dismantles the air-conditioning. We are provided with two heaters, one of which is broken. Colin spends the evening, sat in bed – heater by his side – trying not to cry especially as there is a distinct smell of cat pee from under the bed and a cat spent the night moaning outside the door. The following morning, we were informed the air-conditioning was broken and couldn’t be used. The owner was surprised when Colin started crying, sobbing even, and quickly left.
That was probably the lowest point of my time here to-date. Colin did sit sobbing for most of the day; we resisted the temptation to consume alcohol as we both knew it could only make matters worse.
Lambo left the flat, jumped onto his bike and cycled to Las Playitas sports complex, after donning his Nike trainers, rugby shorts and one of those breathable sports tops. “Could I speak to the person responsible for bookings, I am considering staying here”, he asked the receptionist. Pablo appears a few minutes later. “Hi Pablo and what an amazing place you have here”. “Thank you”, he responds, “how can I help you?” He adds. Lambo responds, “I am told you have over 1,200 beds here and over half of them are empty, what is your cheapest price for a self-catering apartment please”. Pablo looked at his computer screen, taps some keys and says, “what price are you willing to pay please”. “How does £45.50 per night sound,” Lambo cheekily replies. “not quite that low sir, but I am sure we can do a deal”. The deal is done but think it best I do not quote the figure, as it may upset the neighbours. “When would you like to arrive?” Pablo adds. In about two hours Lambo responds, as he dashes to his bike to deliver Colin the good news. We were packed and away thirty minutes later.
Not quite all good news, as Air B&B would take five days to agree a 50% refund as I cancelled early, despite the condition and lack of services. Hey ho.
At last we find a place to write relax and dance; Colin is the happiest I have seen him for weeks and Lambo can dance (Zumba – Boxercise – Totally Shredded) his little heart out. He has even purchased a pair of Lycra cycling shorts for his new found love of 'Spinning' classes and the four mile cycle into town. Oh dear Lambo is officially a MAMIL.
There is also a huge life event taking place later this week – for which I will need to thank my son Christopher - and I am no longer able to stop it happening.
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