A quick word about this blog – until now all my posts have been in chronological order, and I’ve shared my story with you just as it happened. And although I have many more tales to tell (of sewing scrubs for the NHS and my first experience getting massively trolled; of lockdown challenges and Shakespeare reviews; of joining a dating site and discovering a whole new world of weird; and of looking for, and finding, some purpose for my future) all of these things have taken place during a time of intense and difficult grieving, which makes it very hard to write in my usual style.

Ergo, I’ve decided to separate things off into different subjects, which will hopefully fill in the blanks of the last eighteen months in a more accessible way. I’ll include at least one post where I write about bereavement – or at least about my experiences of it – because it’s part of my journey, and because reading it may make someone else who’s grieving feel less alone. But not now and not yet. Instead, this post will be about a couple of holidays I had in September of last year, where the lovely people I meet range from Aquaman to Hercules.

Kelsey with Janine

My mate Janine phones me. ‘Wanna go glamping?’ she says. ‘I know a nice place down by West Wittering?’ And I think about it and decide that the answer is a clear No. I have been spoilt by living in Georgie and I don’t want to be crossing fields in the middle of the night, looking for a loo. Happily, my counter-offer of an Airbnb, in nearby Selsey, is accepted and off we trolley.

Once we’ve unpacked we take a stroll along the beach. Well, when I say stroll, what I mean is that Janine says, ‘There’s this big, massive house along the coast that is really interesting to look at. Let’s walk up there.’ What she DOES NOT say is that the big, massive house is almost seven miles away, so not actually a late afternoon stroll at all. We make a start in the right direction, and I’m happily taking pictures of patterns in the sand (don’t judge me) when I hear, ‘Ooh look – Neptune.’ I don’t take much notice for a moment, but then I look up and see…..him! Aquaman!

Janine has already started off in the other direction (towards the big, massive house – there is something seriously wrong with the girl), so I have to grab her by the arm and drag her over to meet him. When he tells us he’ll be there every day, even Janine is happy. ‘He was gorgeous,’ she agrees as we walk off. ‘You’ll die alone,’ I tell her.

The next morning we pop into the town and order breakfast. An hour later it finally arrives, which is actually fine, as it comes free of charge because they lost our order. Then we wander around the town (which has been beautifully yarn-bombed to within an inch of it’s life), paying special attention to charity or craft shops, as you do.

In one I discover a cute little painting of a seagull. I’ve taken to collecting a few things with seagulls on, recently, as they were Steve’s favourite bird. I used to give him seagull things as gifts and now they just remind me of him; in fact, they now represent him. So I’m contemplating buying this as another memento when I ask Janine what she thinks of it. ‘How much does it cost?’ she says, turning it over to look on the back, and then shrieking with laughter as she shows me what’s written there. The picture has a title, and the title has just one word – STEVE. So that’s coming home with me, obviously.

We spend a wonderful afternoon at Earnley Butterflies, Birds and Beasts. This is as basic and run-down as it sounds, and all the better for it (I’ve always had a thing for places that are peeling at the edges). Once upon a time it was really cute, but now it is like going to somebody’s rather large back garden, that’s got some stuff in it that is interesting, and other stuff that really shouldn’t be there any more. Bliss.

We start off in the butterfly house, which is a thing that, unless it has run out of butterflies, is impossible to get wrong. There are some amazingly huge, iridescent blue ones, that fling themselves about constantly and refuse to have their photo taken.

Then we take a walk around the ‘gardens’ (which are probably only the size of my flat) where we encounter the parrots and cockatoos. These are a joy. One cockatoo in particular keeps saying hello, telling me he’s a really good boy, and demanding chocolate. I could stay and chat to him all day, but the mini zoo is waiting. This is where the height of exotic is a paddling pool of turtles, and we get to feed all the rabbits with carrots we’ve bought in the cafe.

We wander around the Nostalgia Museum that ‘displays’ household items, pictures, clothes and memorabilia from the last century. But no-one has touched this place for years – actually, make that decades – and all the exhibits have faded to a series of washed-out greys, are covered in dust and dirt, and the damp from the ceiling has stripped walls and destroyed posters. Once we’ve got used to the musty smell it is just, well, a bit of an experience. Then it’s on to the crazy golf where we find that, if we avoid the weeds and the dead leaves, it makes for an interesting and laughter-filled game. All in all, this is our favourite afternoon out, because almost everything is nothing like we expected.

On our last day, we check out of our lovely room and stop off at Bosham (to see who’s parked their cars where the tide comes in) before heading into Portsmouth. We see more animals at the Oceanarium, where I’m enchanted by the smiley faces on the rays. Then we eat chips, overlooking the sea, and feel very happy little campers.

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Mallorca with Lucie

On the same day that I book the Airbnb in Selsey, I get a call from Lucie. My sister was married to her brother, and we have a niece in common, so she is my sister’s sister-in-law, if you follow me. She has booked a much-needed holiday to Turkey (she’s had an appallingly tough year), but has been let down by the person she was going to go with. She knows it’s short notice, but would I like to go with her? I point out I don’t have much money at the moment, and she very generously offers to pay the flights and accommodation, if I can pay my way when we get there. I point out that, due to a deviated septum (am still waiting for the op) I currently snore like a freight train. She says no problem. She says that if it becomes a problem, we’ll get a room each. I say I’ll bring an assortment of ear-plugs, just in case, and Lucie says great. I can’t believe my luck!

Then Thomas Cook goes bust and it’s back to the drawing board. Lucie quickly finds us an all-inclusive at a 4-star hotel in Mallorca. It costs a bit more than the Turkey holiday, but prices are sky-rocketing as everyone tries to grab whatever’s going. I tell Lucie to work out how much more it costs for us to go all-inclusive and I’ll refund her. And I don’t care where we go, because it will just be lovely to be abroad again.

But when we arrive, the hotel isn’t quite how she thought it was going to be. For a start, we don’t have nearly enough tattoos or false nails to fit in with the other guests. And when we get to our tiny room, the twin beds are what can only be described as an intimately small distance from each other. We stand on the mini balcony and joke that, if my snoring gets too loud, then one of us can always sleep out here.

That evening, we meet Freddie and Octavia – a young couple (of mates, not lovers) from London, who also had to hastily re-book because of Thomas Cook. After grilling them for the best place to sunbathe, and where to get coffee that’s actually drinkable, Lucie asks them what they think of the hotel: Freddie, with quite brilliant accuracy, describes it as being like a very nice open prison. My heart lifts at this, realising that I have just found my people!

That night, being over-tired, with the air-conditioning not really kicking in yet, and on beds that are both super-hard and narrow, we barely sleep. And when we do, I SNORE, possibly more than I ever have before from being forced to lie on my back in order not to roll off the edge of the bed. The next morning, my brain is fogged, my eyes are bleary, and I ache all over. I can glimpse Lucie looking completely ragged, poor thing, as on top of everything else she was unable to get to grips with the ear-plugs. In her dazed and sleep-deprived state she says, ‘Someone has to sleep on the balcony tonight.’ And then she looks at me. Well, I can’t make her do it, can I? That would just be wrong. So in my own dazed and sleep-deprived state I mutter, ‘Ok, I’ll give it a go.’ She adds, helpfully, ‘If it works, we could take it in turns?‘ So that’s the plan then.

We have a lovely day on the beach, unwinding and recovering, and are very pleased to run into Freddie and Octavia, again, at the coffee house. Then, once we are back in the room for the night, I make up my bed on the balcony. I’m BAD with heights, so I just avoid thinking about that aspect, stick in some ear-plugs, bung on a sleep mask, and allow the happy exhaustion to zonk me out.

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I’m so tired that I sleep quite well, as it turns out. When I get back into the room in the morning, Lucie asks me how it went. I tell her it was not too bad, which is the truth (but even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have told her, because I wouldn’t have wanted her to feel guilty for suggesting I go out there in the first place). And this is when I realise she probably isn’t herself yet, and maybe had another bad night, because, instead of saying, ‘Right, it’s my turn tonight then,’ she says, ‘Well, if you’re happy to do it, then I think we’ll just carry on with this arrangement.’ Um, Ok?

On the beach, we meet up with Freddie and Octavia. While we’re splashing about in the sea, they ask me how sleeping on the balcony went. I tell them it wasn’t awful, and that I’m there again tonight. This cracks us all up, and we start making joke plans: that I’ll wait until Lucie goes to sleep, then leave a whole load of sheets knotted together and hanging over the balcony, and go and sleep in their room, on the sofa (I’d like to point out that I DO NOT DO THIS. But I am EXCEEDINGLY tempted).

We join the guys in the main bar for the evening’s entertainment. We don’t know what this is going to be, but the stage backdrop looks interesting: it has a castle, a forest, a waterfall, etc. The show starts with a rousing rendition of ‘Be our guest’ from Beauty and the Beast. At first I think we’ve got the timings wrong, and this is the kids show, but then I realise that I’m just old, and every adult there grew up with these songs. Freddie and Octavia are blissfully singing along, and going over the top with excitement when Mrs Potts waddles out. I give in, go with the flow, and thoroughly enjoy myself as they go thorough many inventive costume changes and cover at least eight Disney movies.

The final one is Hercules, which my kids were the wrong age for, so I have never seen. But I don’t care, because the Sangria has been flooding to our table, rather than just flowing. And this is probably why, as the actors take their final bows and start packing up the stage, I get the sudden urge to have my picture taken with Hercules, who has just come out to the bar. I’m not quite fast enough though, and he starts heading back to the stage door. I hurl plastic chairs out of the way in my drunken bid to head him off before he makes it. And… nope, he’s gone. But I’ve come this far, and I’m a middle-aged English lady in full force, and the Sangria would rather I run straight into the pool than turn around. So I leap onto the stage, stick my head through the door, and yell, ‘Coooo-eee!’ Well, he was very nice, is all I’m saying, and I got my photo.

We decide to get a relatively early night as we plan to visit a street market, in a nearby village, in the morning. I head out to the balcony again, but this time it’s not such a good experience. Word has clearly got out to the local mosquito community that there’s fresh meat on the eighth floor, and my blood is now 60% alcohol, so it’s party central for the little blighters. By 4.45 I give up trying to sleep, pick up my pillows, and sneak past Lucie, into the bathroom. I try sleeping both on the floor, and in the bath, but it’s no good – it’s too uncomfortable and I’m itching too much.

I quietly get dressed and go down to the hotel lobby. I’m told by the night clerk that I can have another room, but not until the proper staff come in at eight. I find three chairs behind the lift shaft, and curl up there to try and snooze. Three hours of basically listening to people check-in later, and they allocate me a new room. I meet the young ‘uns getting out of the lift as I’m getting into it: they’ve come for breakfast, and they look pretty good considering the size of their hangovers.

The street market at Calvia is lovely. It reminds me of my time in Portugal and I feel, for a few precious moments, as if I am back in my old life. There are tiny, steep streets, a hilltop church with beautiful stonework, pavement cafes, and oodles of peace and quiet. Lucie finds a stall selling scarves, and gets us all to choose our favourite colours. She barters like a boss and gets them for an absolute knock-down price.

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In the evening, the hotel’s entertainment is a rather wonderful flamenco show. Well, the show is actually great, but it’s one of the male dancers that is the rather wonderful bit. I pretty much lose the power of speech while he is on stage, and emit odd squeaks whenever he aims his thousand-kilowatt smoulder in our direction. I make up for my speechlessness by joining in the karaoke, and then see the video that Freddie made of it and wish I hadn’t. Total facepalm.

The next day we spy the pineapple guy doing the rounds on the beach. We are all now so relaxed that Lucie forgets to do her Olympic-standard haggling, and we end up being charged 15 euros for one before we realise he’s not giving us any more change from the twenty. We eat the world’s most expensive pineapple in record time. Freddie misses out on this though, because he has gone to do some laundry. At first he tries to do this at the hotel, but it is closed, so Octavia has put him on a bus to the next village. But, after many phone calls, during which we demolish the pineapple, he ends up, several hours and three taxis later, having done the world’s most expensive laundry.

That evening we head into Palma, as Lucie is meeting a work contact there and is going to attempt a quick meeting. So me and the other two head off to roam around the streets for an hour, and try on lots of hats in El Corte Ingles. And maybe that’s the problem – maybe I rub my ear too many times doing that – because when we all settle in at the bar for a Mai Tai, the back of my ear sort of explodes.

A bit of back-story here: the day before I come on holiday, I’m at the hospital having a large lump on the back of my ear checked out. The ENT guy looks at it, does that thing where he sucks in air over his teeth, and says he isn’t about to fiddle with that thing, ooh no, he’ll get a plastic surgeon to do the business. So an appointment has been made for a few weeks time, and I’m not even thinking about it any more. But now blood is suddenly pouring out of my ear, and there’s a considerable amount of ouch about the whole proceedings.

We all grab tissues, and then Freddie offers to have a look for me, as he’s not squeamish (he’s really not). During the ‘pressing hard to help stop the bleeding’ bit, he notices that, well, gunk is coming out too. Assuming it’s a cyst that’s burst, he helps squeeze out all the rubbish so that I can go and clean it properly in the bathroom. I am feeling sufficiently wobbly to need more Mai Tai, so it’s not terrible, if I’m honest. Then, once we are back at the hotel, it’s all sangria and an Abba tribute band, so I’m literally feeling no pain by the time I stumble to my lovely new bedroom.

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For our last day we go shopping in the souvenir shops that line the beach front. I buy a sparkly head wrap for Octavia, and the most tasteless, fringed, holiday T-shirt I can find for Freddie. Octavia presents me with a little, hugging, salt and pepper set. We’d noticed them in the shops as we were browsing, and I’d remarked that I used to have a set, which Steve insisted on leaving in rude and compromising positions whenever my back was turned. Octavia has managed to find me a set that have blue-dipped heads. ‘They’re wearing gimp masks!’ I say, delightedly. Freddie has bought both Lucie and I enormous, black, penis-shaped bottle openers. Of course he has.

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Back in the UK I display my roody salt and pepper pots in the kitchen, and yes, I do put them in naughty poses. And my big, black, cock sits proudly in the display cabinet: I’m waiting for someone to notice. I wake up the following morning to find that an empty …. thing… like a tiny, alien, baked-bean skin, has popped out of my ear. I hurry around to my doctor and show it to him. He does that thing where he sucks air over his teeth and says he’s not touching that thing, ooh no…!

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