Happy New Year everyone. I hope you’ve had everything you could want from the festive season. Last year we were in Greece, where it’s not that big of a deal. Consequently, we were freed from the tyranny of endless carols, ridiculous ads and Noddy Holder, so felt very comfortable with doing the whole thing in a very low-key and laid-back way.

However, this year I wanted to make a bit more of an effort, possibly inspired by this life-size knitted Nativity I saw in Bristol (really don’t know what happened to that donkey). Also, because we stayed in the UK longer than in previous years, there were birthday parties to attend as well as the usual seasonal high-jinks.

Kid’s parties

Our grandkids, Sky and Kit, turned three in November, so they are now at the height of their powers. They cannot be dissuaded, distracted, or plain bought off from anything their hearts are set on. Conversely, they can’t be persuaded into anything new which they, with an unshakeable certainty, know they’ll despise before they’ve even tried it.

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They’re able to repeat the same word, phrase or movement way, way beyond the point where The Guinness Book of Records would have given up and gone home. And they can instantly love or suddenly hate foods, toys, or items of clothing, with a passion that’s usually reserved for people who have ‘The Great’ added to the end of their names when they’re dead. They are unstoppable, irrepressible, undeniable and perfect, and we needed to celebrate their awesomeness with a birthday shindig.

The Circus Party

Rosie (their mum) sends us an invitation to the do, which is to be held relatively near to us and will be a sort-of special kiddie circus. Sounds good, right? We’re instructed to bring the cake to the place where the show’s to be held, then we’ll have tea and cake afterwards in the cafe there. I know that Bristol has a top-rated circus school, and is a bit of a centre for this kind of thing, so this seems a great idea.

But now that I think about it for a minute, my expectations were probably way too high. Because the amount of people graduating with a tightrope degree can’t all find work in the industry straight away, can they? There just aren’t that many circuses. And they probably aren’t all brilliant performers, either.

So what happens to the ones who don’t get whisked away to Vegas?

Well, some of them think that clubbing together and putting on a show for kids, that includes circus-skills, is a good idea (which it is). And that, in Bristol, there are plenty of cheapish theatre spaces in which to perform said show (they’re right about that too).

But, sadly, this particular group seemed to believe that their ability to spit lighter fluid at an already lit match without gagging, made them somehow able to write a good story. And they probably forgot that – far from being easy to please – kids are a sophisticated and intelligent audience who generally refuse to sit still and shut up, just out of politeness. So this group did their best, but to say it fell short is …… absolutely my opinion.

So the day of the party arrives. We all troop into the ‘theatre space’ (big empty room), and most of the kids sit on floor cushions at the front, which is a nice touch. The backdrops are interestingly painted and the excitement amongst the rug-rats is palpable.

The show starts and we realise pretty quickly that it’s the usual story – a friendless girl has a dream, where she sails in a strangely convenient boat to a magical island, ya-de-ya-de-yah. She makes friends with some unidentifiable animal in a waistcoat (could have been a teddy-bear – also could have been many other things, the costumes are a bit vague). They twirl some hoops, and do a couple of other circusy things which don’t really fit the story, but it’s all fine until…

…cue the spooky music and enter, the Dragon.

Frankly, this is where they lose me, because it takes ages to work out that’s who the weird lady in the red-sequinned harem pants is. I’m sure I’m not alone in this.

She walks on very slowly, in that creepy pantomime way. She has two flaming tapers in her hands as she sneaks up behind the heroine and her strange monkey/bear friend. I suspect what the ‘writers’ hope for is some booing and hissing, and some, ‘she’s behind you,’ catcalls. What they get is a deafening silence, interrupted by a little boy in the front row yelling, ‘I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE!’.

I swear to God, I giggle nearly all the way through. I’d heartily recommend it except it takes half the time it advertised on the tickets, and then we’re all ushered out, a confused and blinking mass, onto the pavement. I retrieve the cake from the ‘cafe’ (for which read, the bit of bar counter not taken up by the sound system), and we go and have a proper do at The Boston Tea Party over the road.

Here all the kids behave beautifully whilst still being just kids, and the adults stock up on coffee and wine. Presents are opened, and ‘Gramps’ gets liberally covered in rubber stamps and stickers until he resembles an alien. Kit pre-empts the birthday song by blowing out the candles before anyone else has got a look-in (his twin sister, for instance), and, FYI, that chocolate mud on the cake is delicious. Lovely, proper party: who cares about the daft, but entertaining in it’s own way, circus show!

The Cider Party

The lovely family we’re staying with near Bath, give their seven year old daughter a birthday party too. But this one has a more practical slant than the circus one – it’s a cider-making party. Seriously, how brilliant is that? They get their entire crop of apples picked, pulped, pressed, and bottled in one glorious, autumnal afternoon.

Obviously, the kids love it: plenty of space to be completely feral in, trees to climb, oodles of beer-fuddled parents to drag them around in apple carts, barbecued burgers and freshly-squeezed juice. I think it’s inspired.

Katherine’s dad is the Cider Operations Manager, and I give him a hand by cleaning and trimming the apples. He has two adorable daughters and this is his first introduction to the vile and despicable animals that masquerade as seven year-old boys. ‘They keep pelting each other with apples, and kicking them around like they’re footballs,’ he says, in tones of utter bewilderment.

That’s nothing, I think; wait until the largest one wants to see what happens when he shoves the smallest one, head first, into the apple pulper. Why d’you think I’m hanging around this end? I’ve had sons. I’ve met their friends. I know not to leave them alone with sharp (or even blunt) objects.

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The whole thing goes off without a hitch, unless you count an over-excited puppy that has to sit in the car for the duration. Katherine’s friends gather for her specially requested bubble cake, and then the party bags are handed around. For my money, the best bit is when one of the lads decides to eat the bath bomb, and promptly fizzes blue puke onto the ground whilst going an enviable shade of green.

The gifts

We are terribly lazy grandparents. We generally ask Rosie and Lawrence what they’d like us to buy for the kids, then we just go out and get it. Or, if we are abroad, we get it sent from Amazon. This year they request umbrellas with see-through bits. Well alrighty. We buy them a playhouse as well, but it’s the umbrellas that cause the most excitement.

For Katherine’s birthday, I finally get around to painting a mural on her climbing frame wall. I’ve been promising to do this for the girls since we arrived, so I crack on. Her mum has the brilliant idea of using the oddly shaped hand-holds as different animals in a jungly/ocean theme. Then she’ll be able to say to the girls, ‘reach for the blue fish,’ or, ‘put your foot on the yellow bird,’ to help them as they learn to climb it. And I must say, I’m chuffed with the result.

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Adult do’s

We arrive at Moncarapacho, in Portugal, just in time for Christmas. We’ve been to Frank’s site two years ago, and met the marvellous ‘Intrepids’ there (read about them in posts 7, 8, and 9). Brenda agrees to phone the hotel they’ve booked Christmas lunch in, and add two more to the number. So I plan a party for when we all get back later, already half cut.

Celebrating Christmas

I add to the games I put Steve through last year (see The delights of Drepano, and Christmas-on-wheels), and go looking for team prizes. First I ransack the van for anything we were going to throw away anyway, but hadn’t got around to. This haul includes a pair of binoculars that are so crap we forgot we had them and bought another pair, and an already opened packet of tic-tacs. Then I go around a shopping mall and find a few things that are actually quite nice, but cost fuck-all.

Finally, it’s off to the Chinese Shop. You don’t have these in Britain, but they are a phenomenon scattered all over Spain and Portugal. They stock everything at rock bottom prices, and I’m not even joking. They are places I go to cheer myself up when I’ve had a rough day. Steve and I wander the aisles looking at … stuff, and wondering who in the world buys this tat? And today, it was me. I found some of the ugliest, tackiest, nastiest, most tasteless tea-towels, stick-on coat hooks and fridge magnets imaginable.

On a wonderfully sunny Christmas day, we have our lunch at the hotel, which has fabulous views of the orange groves, the hills, and the distant sea. We meet all our old friends, including some of the Intrepids who’ve now bought land out here, or moved to other sites.

We get slightly confused by the buffet system, and end up having three courses on one plate. Then the owner does the usual of bringing round a flask of his ghastly and toxic home-brewed liqueur, which I have the sense to tip into a floral arrangement.

Then it’s back to the van, where I split the guys into teams and torture them with the quiz I’ve prepared. I know no-one will know any of the answers, but I’m perfectly willing to award points on the basis of creativity and absurdity, and there is a whole box of badly-wrapped prizes to be won.

Things are going well, but, due to lack of space, I get them all to make hats out of old carrier bags, instead of Xmas jumpers like we did last year. They may have been getting rather hungry and ready for the games to be over by this point, as they construct them very speedily indeed. The results are spectacular.

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Then we come to the last game before the karaoke kicks off. Inspired by the films we had to make for Mr One Love at Angloville (read about that here), I send them off to recreate a famous painting. Two teams choose the same painting, which makes it interesting: Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring. Here’s the original.

And then I have to pick between these two fabulous ladies.

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I choose Brenda for the Christmassy version of the earring – nice touch. The winning teams scoops up the ‘cash prize’ I have been taunting them with all evening, and which is actually a big bag of chocolate coins, and then we all sing our little hearts out. Good times.

New Year’s Eve

The Intrepids tell us that one of the local coastal towns, Tavira, will be doing a firework display for New Years Eve. They invite us to join them for a meal at the Irish Pub beforehand, and come and get us when it’s time to convoy down. We start off with a quick walk around the town while it’s still light, then head off to the bar for our pre-ordered feast.

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We pass the stage that’s been set up in the town square, and the band does an Abba medley for us as their sound check. Honestly, I’m delighted: nothing says Christmas to me quite like some sparkly bell-bottoms and a bit of Dancing Queen.

After the meal, the fireworks are lovely, the crowd is not too dense, and the music is nicely varied. Our arrival by the stage to coincides with that of DJ Minion (nuff said), who is followed by a medley of old crooners, some rock ‘n roll, a section of popular Portuguese music and, of course, the Abba band.

They go on to do more medleys, including Queen and Guns ‘n Roses. I dance on the spot until my feet go numb and the beer wears off. Being old, we wobble happily home at a mere two in the morning.

And that’s it for another year – time to settle down and get some work done. Part of the reason we’ve picked Moncarapacho (apart from the climate), is that it’s a nice place to stay while we fix all the other things on our to-do list. But I’ll tell you how we get on with that next time.

Thanks for reading. Ciao XX

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