The Holiday

It's been three weeks since I returned from my break away with Ray and memories of the hellish holiday are seared onto my brain, like a toddler's indelible crayon etchings on a freshly painted wall. During the last four days of the holiday I put 'Operation Special Brew' into action. The aim was to pull Ray out of his depression without the use of strong alcohol. I withdrew my savings and drew up an action plan. On the first day we went bowling. I was shocked at the steep price for each game. As the cost was coming out of my pocket I feigned a twisted ankle and hobbled to and from the alley in a slow and laborious manner, just to keep the game going for longer. Afterwards I bought a cheap loaf of white bread and a bag of chips to share. On day two we had enough cash to catch the bus to the next town, we spent the morning in a quirky little museum with dusty stuffed animals and skeletons and the afternoon in a greasy cafe playing dominoes. We saved all the excitement for day three, a trip to a local funfair complete with rickety rides and heavily tattooed men with missing teeth and gold jewellery. Embarrasingly Ray won a soft toy on hook a duck and squealed with delight, eliciting some unfriendly stares from the hard nuts standing around nearby. After three rides on the Mexican Wave and two bags of Candy Floss we felt suitably sick and returned back to the caravan. On our last day we set ourselves the task of buying unusual gifts from the local pound and charity shops, the person with the best array of booty for £10 won. Ray came back with a collection of peg dolls for his neice, a creepy looking picture of Pierrot for his sister, a cheap looking satin cushion for his mother and an earthenware jug from Paxos for his sponser. I spent a pound on a glittery purse for my daughter Louise and saved the rest. Ray went ballistic, said he couldn't take all the tat he had bought back it was all non-returnable. I ignored him, it was sweet revenge for such a shockingly awful holiday.