It’s amazing just how polite people can be when being snotty. I don’t mean snotty as in stuffed up with a cold, I mean snotty as in stuck up.
I’m back again, in my favourite hideaway. A spa with all the trimmings. I missed my annual Spring visit and my winter visit is later than usual. It may seem as though I have money to burn being here in the lap of luxury but I haven’t. I save my pennies for my twice a year trip and I enjoy every minute. The staff know me and I have had the same room for three years now. It’s a privilege, I am grateful that there are people that work here, I’m grateful that they clean up after me, cook for me, pamper me and pretend, just for a day or two, that I am indeed important. I admire their patience and would never knowingly be condescending or rude to anyone of them, let alone another guest. However, you knew it was coming, however, I am not the easiest of people to live with. I’m not quiet, nor am I PC, whatever that is. I am loud and proud and like a bit of fun. So when the lady in the coffee shop said she liked to sing, of course I had to join in, it was fun, what can I say. I must add though that this incident occurred before Mark arrived.
Yes you read it here, I have let Mark into my inner sanctum. He has joined me at the Spa.
I’ve tried, really tried hard, to make sure that his stay here will be as bad as it can possibly be. Yep, bad, I want him to hate it, to be miserable, to never want to return, for this to be the last place on earth he ever wants to visit ever again. Now either he is being very polite or he is actually enjoying himself.
Upon arrival I got chatting to the receptionist as I informed her that “the husband” would be arriving later.
“He’s not come with you then?”
“No, he’s stuck under a computer somewhere up North, I have no idea when he’s going to get here, nor if.”
The conversation went the way all conversations on husbands go between women.
“Mine does that.”
“And mine does.”
“But I know that just down the lane at the end of the path there is a bramble bush that hides a deep ditch.” I added.
She wasn’t sure if I was kidding. I’ve been here before and could describe the lay of the land effortlessly. What I didn’t expect was the conversation she had with Mark when he arrived.
Telling him, “Enjoy your stay, but I suggest you stay away from the country lane,” was something I later had to explain in detail to him. Mark knows me better and understands that I would never ditch him in a ditch. He knows that when I do kill him, it will be with a very heavy blunt metal object.
Interlude: I haven’t done an interlude for a long time.
Interlude: standing in Sainsbury’s I picked up a griddle pan. Thick cast iron, many ridged griddle pan. I have this thing whereby I forget what things are called, being one of those moments I looked up as I weighed the pan in my hand and said to Mark, “look it’s a husband killer, can I get one, they’re on offer?” Mark knew what I meant, but there were several women in the kitchenware department that took a dim view of my description, but there were also one or two that saw the funny side and giggled.
So Mark knows that I have no intention of ditching him, after all why would I go out and waste good money on a husband killer, and then kill him in a country lane. I can assure you I haven’t brought the pan with me.
The theme set for our stay I am now trying everything I can think of to make this a holiday to forget and never repeat.
Round one, dinner. It’s health food, it’s going to be different. I can’t cook like that. Was he deterred, was he heck, he dived into his scallops, devoured the stir fried beef and greens and the jammy sod actually got a pear and ginger crumble with custard, his favourite. I tried to put him off with the prices, “not cheap I told him,” as he reached for the wine menu. Knowing how fussy he is about his wine I was sure that would end his love of the dinning. The bugger must be the luckiest git on this earth, as for the first time ever they served IPA with the meal. Gobsmacked as Mark luxuriated over the food and his ale, I asked the hostess if she could lace his food with rat poison, just a tad you understand, just enough to make him sick and send him home. What wasn’t supposed to happen was Mark starting up a conversation on warfarin. I didn’t know that there was warfarin in rat poison, and how Mark knew was beyond me.
Getting Mark to hate this place was getting harder.
Round two, boredom. We were in bed by 9:30 last night. Surely that would kill him off. Nope, out like a light. Up at 5am, nope, he was amazed that he had seven straight hours of uninterrupted sleep. Me, on the other hand I was awake at 1am, 2:39am and again at 4:47am.
Breakfast, ahah, healthy fry up, surely being served chicken sausage, a turkey rasher in place of bacon and being told that they don’t do fried eggs must have been a downer. Not in the least. The fact that he could also help himself to toast, cereal, green tea with lemon and have coffee and yogurt made up for any shortcomings. Lunch hit the spot as well, so the restaurant was not going to be my ally.
In between breakfast and lunch I took him to the water torture chamber. This would be it, this would be the straw to break him. Armed with nothing but his swimming trunks and slippers he was about to be thalmathoosywhatdeyacallited. Technically known by the rest of the world as thalassotherapy. In to the pool, jets on and away we go, this would break him, this would be boring and unnecessary.
The thalmathoosywhatdeyacallit was a big hit. There he stood like a little boy that had just discovered he could turn on the hose pipe and get it to do all sorts of fountainous things. The smile on his face was wonderful, it was precious and if I could take that smile and place it in my pocket to carry with me everywhere I went, I would have done. It was magic to see him relaxed and happy. It’s been awhile.
The couple we have been talking to thought it was delightful, Caroline laughed at his antics and I fell madly and passionately in love with Mark all over again. It was the mother and daughter combo that got arsie. I didn’t point them out, nor mention it to Mark, but I noticed. They are the ones we all know, the ones that are obviously better than the rest. The, “we’ve paid top dollar therefore we are worth it,” ones, “so we expect everyone to be as stuck up their own derrière as we are stuck up our own. The look on their faces was not a look I appreciate. In fact I took the opportunity to laugh at Marks antics as did Caroline. I know she noticed. Bumping into her in the corridor after lunch she asked how our day was going.
“We went back to our room, we slept, we had lunch and now we are just going to chill.”
“Did you see the looks that we were…”
I stopped her in mid sentence, “yep, you get it all the time, too much snot to wipe their own noses.”
She laughed. “Privilege,” she said. “I feel it’s a privilege to be here, they’re the type that feel it’s a privilege for the staff to serve them.”
We parted and I sat down before the big fire in the hall, took out my iPad and began to type.
Mark: “Join me by the fire, it’s empty.”
I sent the message and now we are both lounging by the fire as the world goes by. Mark reads and I write. He can stay, he can also come with me next time if he wants.
It’s a privilege to share my private time and secret hideaway with my husband.
Ps: Happy Anniversary to my wonderful husband.