I was on holiday with a boy.
We departed from Gatwick South terminal and breezed through check in- my suitcase was underweight for the first time since I was 11 and seamlessly moved through security, my titanium knee not setting the alarms off was a massive bonus. All in all, so far, so good. There was a Nandos. We had two hours to kill. It was legitimately the best airport of my life. We purchased six toblerones, two huge bottles of water, a milkshake and spent the remaining half an hour judging people who we would never see again. (I mean, what 20 something wears Crocs for Christ's sake?!)
Now, I love flying. But i hate planes. I'm 5 foot 10 and my boyfriend is just over 6 foot. Plane seating was not built for people with long legs and above the height of 5 foot 5. My knees were permanently digging into the passenger in front; the seats are so packed in, that I genuinely felt a little like a sardine in a can, and discovered a moment of melancholy sadness for the poor things. There's another thing I hate about planes: the other passengers. I was sat next to the chavviest teenage girl, whose mother decided it would be a good idea,to buy her underage daughter, duty free cigarettes for their holiday and let her drink on the plane. I should also note, that the mother then swapped to sit with me and decided to tell me all about her intense fear of flying, clutching on to my arm and genuinely causing a riot, as the plane came to a perfectly normal landing. I dislike people.
The holiday itself was amazing, we were staying at an all inclusive resort, ten minutes outside of the main harbour of Playa Blanca in Lanzorote. The food was incredible, I felt like Gus and Hazel at Oranjee. Buffet menus, free alcohol and soft drinks, and I was in heaven. Most days, we just lay in the sun by the pool. However, I found myself again, incensed at other human beings. When we arrived, we got a welcome pack with dinner dress codes etc on it, and a polite reminder that reserving sunbeds by towels was prohibited- SO WHY DID I ARRIVE TO A SEA OF MULTICOLOURED COTTON EVERY MORNING WITH NO OWNERS ATTACHED TO THEM?! (Sorry, I was very upset by this)
Luckily, George is the most easy going person I know, so he lead me to another block of sunbeds, got me a Kaz (like fanta, but better) and calmed me down. I should also mention that George is very active, he stupidly but amazingly ran a marathon with little training in 3 and a half hours. Now, my realizations of going on holiday with a boy were starting to develop.
On holiday, I like to do as little as possible. I like to lie in he sun, read a book, swim occasionally and have a scheduled afternoon nap because I'm old and I don't like to deny myself such perks. George can sit still for approximately 20 minutes. Subsequently, we became pool, bat 'n' ball and table tennis experts, and now I think I could play in the Olympics for any of those activities. It was also just as I had reapplied my factor 50 (ginger problems) ready to work on turning my milk bottle complexion into a more agreeable shade of freckles that his tanned little face would pop next to mine and ask to play water volleyball, I mean of all the times?! He also suggested climbing one of the volcanoes. I got my way with that one, no bloody way.
One day we walked the forty minutes to the main centre of Playa Blanca, the ten minutes away, as previously mentioned was in actual fact by car- the rep didnt tell us that bit. I got my hair braided, and George ate donuts; we also found a pick and mix shop. Glorious. But the hightlight of our adventures out of the safety of our little bubble, was to the market, where my poor spanish was not helpful, apart from when I had a conversation with a jeweller about his mother and my own being the same age. We got local wine, and the little man on te stall, gave us free bottle openers as a gift ( I don't think he had much custom) and George found the local football team's new shirt. Again- why?!
As our holiday was coming to an end, we planned a meal at the harbour, with our left over Euros (we had spent the majority on pick and mix and icecreams). I was in the shower, when I heard a scream from George. Still with shampoo in my hair, I rushed out of the bathroom, causing a small ocean to be formed on the floor, and arrived to George rifling though our paperwork, his usual easy smile had been replaced by his eyebrows knotted together furiously and his eyes were wild.
"Rachel, we aren't leaving tomorrow, we are supposed to be leaving for the airport in 15 minutes"
SHIT.
We were supposed to be out of our rooms at 12. It was now 6.15 and we needed to pack, check out, and get on a coach by 6.30. Panicked was not the word.
just a bit panicked then.
Having arrived looking disheveled and me still with wet hair, we had a romantic Burger King, got more Toblerones, and there was nobody sat next to me on the plane home.
The good thing about being in such a state of panic? We didn't have time for holiday blues. But now, as I'm sat at home, having sorted my car in for a service, ordered a new tax disc, done two lots of washing and a food shop, I'd do anything for one last game of table tennis in the sun.
