Open Writing

On or return from holiday I invariably have just enough energy left to see me to the nearest armchair and just enough elbow power to lift next year’s holiday brochures.

This year we had the additional excitement of a watery chase through a monotonous motorway build-up and a mad dash to church to attend a friend’s wedding at 2pm on the afternoon of our return home.

Unbelievably, we made it and were all shivering in our summery outfits at least half a second before the bride arrived. We made up for this by being first at the resplendent buffet table, but missed the wedding gift perusal. After my husband had parked the car he promptly fell asleep, awakening just in time for the evening festivities.

Our Scottish holiday brought forth some unusual incidents. We all gasped as we sped down the ‘electric brae’ and our driver freewheeled – upwards. Because of the lie of the land - whatever that means - although you appear to be driving downhill you are actually going up.

In the pretty town of Girvan a kilted assistant actually recited the ancient words, ‘A pleasure to serve you, madam.’ Admittedly the children were absent at the time.

In the same town we noticed a small black-bordered card in a butcher’s shop window. Leaning against a batch of black puddings it cordially invited everyone to attend ‘My brother’s funeral.’ We noticed another butcher with a similar request set amid the black pudding to ‘My sister’s funeral.’ Must be catching. We thought it wiser to buy our meat from one without a card.

We were awakened on our first morning by what sounded like a dozen highlanders dancing a fling in hobnailed boots on our chalet roof, but on investigation turned out to be two seagulls and a rather depressed-looking pigeon. All I can say is they must have suffered from flat feet.

Last year on our initial visit to the holiday camp world we became sitting supporters of the olde-tyme dance movement. So once again we eagerly consulted our maps to pinpoint the Regency Ballroom, home of the waltz and valeta lovers, and set out early to capture a front seat.

It was situated next to a bar called ‘The Continental.’ We peeped in but could only distinguish a noisy blanket of smoke and quickly ushered the children past and into the rich plum velvet and satin elegance of the Regency.

Curiously we were the first arrivals and enthusiastically spread ourselves across five ballroom edge seats. Half an hour dragged on, then a drummer and organist took their places on the raised platform - it seemed the band had arrived. Another hour passed, the children had tried out all the seats and were waxing restless. Where were the rest of the campers? We listened enviously to the raucous yelps of gaiety wafting in from next door. At last an official-looking elderly couple, both wearing identical red blazers two sizes too large, came in and struck an aristocratic pose on the ballroom floor. Obviously the camp commandant and his wife.

Madame wore red sequinned pointed shoes, ‘Just like the wicked witch of the North in Wizard of Oz,’ as one child tactlessly remarked.

This dynamic duo wove in and out, he miraculously missing her pointed toes while they performed intricate patterns of half-turns and side-steps guaranteed to baffle Victor Sylvester himself and intensely fascinating to all nine of us watching.

After a salutory skip round they stood in their supervisory capacity and scrutinised two brave couples who dared to impersonate them. A while later he turned his aquiline profile in our direction. Understandably, I suppose seeing as we were the only other people there. Throwing us a ‘We have ways of making you dance’ glare, he strode over to the microphone and shouted ‘Everybody dancing’ then an even louder ‘please.’ I tried to look deformed and he approached the mike again. ‘Have you come to dance or not?’ he snarled. We pretended hyper-interest in the two stricken dancers on the floor.

The ‘band’ struck up a bright little foot-tapping number. ‘A quickstep’ I whispered with relief to my partner who was buried in the cricket scores. Nearly tying their feet in knots to the beat of the quick tempo the two MC’s did their act again, then cruelly left the floor to the other two couples.

After a struggle one partnership lapsed into a quick-step. Madame was on the floor like lightening shaking a cautionary finger. ‘This is a dinky one-step’ she announced. The offenders smiled sheepishly and continued their illicit quick-step. This was Captain Red Blazer’s cue. With a face to match his coat and his voice rising above the ‘Continental’ din from next door, ‘If you want to do that,’ he sniffed in disgust, ‘Go to the Stuart.’ This was the best bit of news we had heard all evening and we all beat a hasty retreat to where it looked as if the rest of the camp were awaiting us.

Here was a vastly different scene. The ballroom floor was crawling with infants all ‘doing their own thing. A two-year-old sliding from one end to the other via his T-shirt front, another gang of extroverts playing cops and robbers, a guitarist surrounded by a serious-faced group of twelve-year-old lads all breathing down his plectrum, was crooning something inaudible. Mums, dads and aunties were sitting around the plush seating having a relaxed natter about the occupants of the chalet next door.

In this ‘Children rule – OK’ atmosphere we soon forgot about the Regency SS, although I did visit the adjoining restaurant for a quiet read and a coffee once or twice. The only dancers were the two red blazers and a couple who looked like their parents.

I could not summon much interest in the ubiquitous competitions, a favourite pastime for some. We all want to be loved and admired, I suppose, some more than others do. The prelude to these occasions was mildly entertaining. Disguised accordingly, the same people competed in each event!

All were to be seen occupying front seats, preening and painting themselves for each competition, one ‘Glamorous Granny’ finalist turned up in a mini-skirt to win ‘Miss Lovely Legs.’ The entertainment came when entrants were invited to come forward and collect their number. At this point the lovely ladies underwent a much-displayed personality change. Their cleverly shaded lids were lowered demurely as they came over all shy and negative. The only way to get them on stage was over a steward’s shoulder.

‘Over your red body’ seemed to be their slogan. Then comes the unbearable part, each entrant is asked in turn to name her favourite TV personality – my signal to retire – yawn, yawn.