Happy holiday with your grandchildren
AT THE moment of writing this I have just disembarked a budget flight home from Croatia after a week’s holiday in what is popularly known as a “family hotel” with my Other Half, daughter, son-in-law and grandbabies, Zekey aged three and a half and Neroli 22 months. Having paid close attention I feel qualified to share the following rules with you.
You will choose your holiday at least partly on the basis of the cuisine. Regardless of the freshness of the fish, spotted only minutes earlier disporting themselves in the bay, the succulence of the newly harvested figs and the chef’s deft way with pastry, the children in your party will consume only plain pasta or cheese and tomato pizza – and sometimes not even those.
You will begin with vast quantities of baggage including wipes, changes of clothing, sunscreen, buckets, spades, balls, snacks, a buggy, sunshades, sunglasses and a host of other vital accoutrements. Within minutes you will have added a vast inflatable police car, two fishing nets, a sieve, a funnel and two giant squirters. You will lug the aforementioned cargo up and down from beach to room and pillar to post several times a day throughout.
The youngest infant in your party will select the day before the holiday commences to insist upon eschewing nappies for ever. This will necessitate schlepping a large pink potty everywhere you go and the asking of the questions: “Do you need a poo, darling?” and “Would you like a wee wee?” every five minutes throughout the break.
The resort will boast exquisite beaches, mountain ranges and archipelagos. Your (grand)children will scorn all natural wonders in favour of a concrete playground almost identical to the one you left behind in the municipal park round the corner at home.
A poor beleaguered waiter will appear at mealtimes disguised as a moth-eaten badly dressed giant bird most definitely fallen on hard times.
Your (grand)children, even the one sophisticated enough to know this is a chap dressed in a truly manky bird costume, will shriek with unalloyed enthusiasm, jettison their plain pasta/pizza and demand to be taken to pay exaggerated I WAS lucky enough to be part of the Strictly Come Dancing class of 2013, Sir Brucie’s final series.
Frankly, I couldn’t take my eyes of the master. I was fascinated by this astounding opportunity to watch Sir Brucie work, for that is precisely what he did. He worked ferociously at every “spontaneous” gag because obeisance to the feathered friend. You will have brought an unputdownable novel with you. You will have to put it down.
There will be a giant waterslide. No small child must ever know that while they sail down it with glee, he knew precisely how much hard graft it takes to make an aside appear naturally extemporised.
He worked at every catchphrase until the entire nation felt it in its very DNA. He fine-tuned his dance routines until they seeped into his bones and body like running water. He worked the audience until every Grandma quakes at the knee and practically faints with terror while feigning purest joy.
Memories will be made every minute. Shared exhaustion will bind the adults into a tight band of warriors. Shared love will bind them doubter became a worshipper. Unbeknownst to viewers at home, Brucie chose an audience member in his warm-up to every show, drew her from her seat and into his arms and executed an elegant waltz around the floor making her feel lighter than a feather in his arms.
Even more transfixing to watch so closely together nothing will ever tear them apart.
You will arrive home tearful at the thought of no dawn pitter-patter of tiny sneakers, already booking up for next year and most definitely in need of a holiday.
MY MEMORIES OF BRUCIE ON STRICTLY COME DANCING
was his loving relationship with the beautiful wife he called Winnie. He hung on her every word. She adored and encouraged him in all he accomplished. Sir Bruce was a magnificently talented man, a titan of television and a delightful person simply to be around. RIP.