Skip to main content

Day 2: I couldn't find her ice cream



Beige.
The walk of shame.

Every single colour under the sun, that kid’s plate was like a rainbow. Textures, aromas, the lot. It was like tapas without the tequila and quartet. Nada, niente, zero. Still, I think, there are another 2 meals today left, all is not lost.

My salad (yes, salad!) goes untouched in favour of disentangling the tiny tornado from another pickle of wills.

My god, Paw Patrol stopped working on the kindle, in fact all the videos did. I’m usually rather au fait with this kind of stuff (excusing the deconstructed Dell and a rather abused boombox of yore) but I give up. Apps it is. Though the time this took to admit defeat and plan to do something for the morning ran well into the hour and by the time I was strapping on the bumbag (yes, I’ll get to that later) Small was yomping away on the yayas and my window of opportunity had passed. But at least it was quiet. I decide against a G&T thinking I’ll save myself for dinner- famous last words.

Post nap, and post Google for what the heck to do with a Small in a cold holiday resort off-season, we set off armed with a screenshot of the way to an all-bells-on cafe-cum soft play place.
 Ten minutes in I’m thinking this can’t be the way to the centre of the resort. Great observational opportunity to brush up on my building skills but not much in the way of child friendly things.

Then I see it, an oasis of parenting heaven, shining on the distance a playground. Happy, smiling, tiny person. All is well until she shits.

I figure we're more than nearly there so we plod on with the faint promise of finding a public loo. Or at least an ice cream, to soften the blow of  a potential angry rash to match the owner.
20 minutes later, she’s waddling like some millennial rapper with an expression not too dissimilar. Only now she’s mad. Mad that I insist that she holds my hand, and even more so when I resort to the lead of shame when this approach fails spectacularly. We’ve given up on the soft play area, nothing but diggers and crates of bricks as far as the eye can see. Mum skills over and out.

We walk past Bulldog bars, English all you can buffets, 24/7 Kebab World, even a ‘Yates's’(I forgive the poor grammar as an international oversight) and even shudder at the thought of yet another McDonalds in the distance but my gastric woes are untold, they’re all shut. Do the locals not want kebab 24/7 I ponder?

The first open cafe and it’s straight to resolve the colonic irrigation that is the romance starring Senior Dulcolax and his leading lady Mrs Movicol. The kiddy Kindle comes out. My word that’s a fun plaster to rip once the coffee has gone cold. Into the sling and we find a lovely shopping centre. Toys and shoes and myriad wonderful things that I've no chance of looking at in my current predicament. But it’s nice to get inside for a while, out of the rain. Her coordination is improving, she’s able to manage to retain the pink balloon she wailed for dramatically by holding both hands as the feeble stick bends like the sinking titanic in the wind, as we visit the beach. Kudos, kid!

Dinner: posh, wanky and far too fucking fancy for a Barnsley bird and her offspring. A la carte, great. Wanting to avoid a repeat of breakfast I ask for a little bit of everything for Small and kindly they acquiesce. She has other things in mind however, namely the bloody lollipop I’d forgotten about being in my bag.

Cue the biggest non-compliance of gastric proportions, resulting in my sucking (yes, as fancy a place as this is) the sauce off the blandest, most beige option on the menu. A short pissy protest mid meal and we’re at the finishing line. I scrub the chair and pretend like I’ve not seen the reason why the next business man to come on his business trip will smell like a tower block stairwell (this isn’t the kind of place that your Thelmas with their Tena lady patronize, so can’t blame them). No chance of slipping that ‘water’ into a glass of tonic here. Bought my own.

I daresay that the closest laundrette is a billion miles away, I mean c'mon, if I’m not getting a 24/7 kebab I’m sure as hell not getting Small’s knickers dry cleaned outside of the extortionate price-per-item hotel service.

So I’ve succumbed. I’m going to pay to rent the tv for a week. And will sit outside in reflection over what will be unequivocally my sharpest decision to date, watching the ghost-town at rest. In a jumper.

Phil Collins would most definitely have something to say about the weather, I’ll be surprised if I don’t come to regret not packing those wellies.

She’s having a whale of a time however, so that’s all that matters!

Jemma and the tiny Tornado
X



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Covid jail day 4- Bush fruit and shit puns

Hearing the gasps of shock upon stating that Small has been foraging for raspberries outside, gave it a fair 5 minutes before admitting that the fruit picking was from our garden. It would appear that in the 15 years that some previous owners lived here, they developed a penchant for bush fruit -snort- including gooseberries, and what I discovered following a very bitter mouthful wasn't lethal but in fact blackcurrant. What do I do with a fuck tonne of blackcurrants? Periodically affirming that I'm not the shittest Mom in a 50 mile radius as she's feeling incredibly smug with the haul, I had to force myself not to laugh in her face as she badly washed then wolfed more than a couple of aphids along with these garden jewels.  Day 2 of covid jail saw me in more than a small tangle. Who knew covid would give me the coccyx of an aged Chippendale and ankles of a hockey player? Maybe that's just too much enthusiasm demonstrating weird and wonderful birthing positions. In any s

Day 6: See, I'm not always whining! I could even (after enough booze) book something similar again!

Distinct lack of Insta-twats today, apart from their little paddy this evening, slamming doors and shouting profanities whilst walking away. Not sure what it reminds me of most, the Toddler in the midst of rage or the Teabag that was. Only difference is one pisses herself when she gets angry that she can’t understand (and the other.... we'll just leave that there). We’ve had a really awesome day. And I’ve got that warm fuzzy feeling that oxytocin, reconnecting with my Small piece, and having too much gin to put in the case home- brings. So this will either be short and sweet, or ridiculously boring. Either way I’m sure the blog will be falling by the wayside, as far less shits are given when things go better than expected. And let’s just say here, the bar was definitely set with the demonstrable shitstorm that the past 4 days have been, so in advance for our lack of catastrophe, I apologise. I managed to buy not one but two pairs of shoes today, mentally resolving to not g

Day 7: We made it! (And nobody needed to bail me out!) Honorary adulting badge awarded to Yours Truly. Fnar fnar

Done good with the colourful little rainbow today. But I've saved the mush for my Facebook page, I refuse to soften my corners here too! She got Paw Patrol. In Turkish, but the effect is the same, ergo a less pissed off toddler than full blown angry potential. We've been to a private beach today. Well, it is Icmeler beach, though no locals are dumb enough to frequent with an absence of woolley hat (I've got a Freudian predictive text), duffel coat and hiking boots, let alone Small in just a dress and bare feet. Having said that we had a full on sweat on, it's been positively hot. I'd say it got to 16c, that's my ginger soul fucked, essentially. I was practically a kofta by the time we were dipping our cankles beyond the shillies.  This was preceded by a lovely mystery bus tour through the middle of nowhere - I.e. the main town- looking for our Dutch friend, hospitable as always and fascinating to chat with, then visiting a really wanky biker cafe