Hola. Playa Blanca here. Oh hang on, could you just give me one second readers?
“Sorry what’s that Guido? Would I like another cocktail? Yes please, that would be terrific, if you wouldn’t mind… And don’t forget the cute little paper umbrella and the stick with a maraschino cherry on the end of it. Then when you’ve done that, d’you think you could vigorously rub in some more suncream for me?”
That’s just one of my little jokes which I’ve tossed in to give you some idea of how things are going down here in Lanzarote. The word is, swimmingly. I’m not sure what that is in Spanish. As I lay back on my sun lounger typing this I’m leaving a pleasantly sticky and coconut scented oil residue on my iPad screen. Honestly, I don’t know how I’m going to cope returning to Bermondsey in the next couple of days. It’ll be like going from the joys of Summer to plunging into an eternally cold nuclear Winter.
Fortunately Guido’s become uber friendly with Rocco who knocks the drinks out from behind the poolside bar. You’ll be pleased to hear I’m running him totally ragged. He’s constantly rattling his shaker. I expect he has to lie down in a darkened room at the end of each shift just to recover from me. Drinking one of Rocco’s Pina Coladas has the same effect as conscious sedation does. I’ve told him the next time I need a root canal drilled I’ll be taking him along.
There’s no form of alcohol measurement in Lanzarote. The only size is, Extra Extra Large. So the last 5 days have been a blur. I know I’m married because I’m wearing a wedding ring and so is Guido, but recalling the exact details of how that occured have become a bit sketchy for us both. It’s like having post traumatic stress disorder only without the trauma or the stress but with the vivid flash backs. In 500 words I couldn’t possibly begin to describe it, but see the abridged version below.
Guido said his vows. Our best man Ted cried. I said my vows. Our bridesmaid Gary cried. The Spanish Onion tables got decked with flickering candles and lanterns and bunting and rose petals. There was paella. There was calamari. The pavlova turned into Eton Mess. Our first dance was to Everything, sung by Daniel Boys. The Los Chicos guys from Palma turned up and played a heel thumping set. My mother got completely drunk and almost tore her blouse off mid-way through a passionate flamenco dance with a guy half her age who she’d only just met. Guido’s father cried. The trouser button on my £700 Vivienne Westwood tartan suit exploded. Guido’s mother made an incredibly moving speech about how much she loved us both. Guido cried. The last guests staggered home at about 3 a.m. Then Guido and I went up to the loft had the best sex we’d ever had and none of it involved using mayonnaise. I felt the happiest I’d ever felt before in my entire life. I cried. The end.
Rocco’s Coma Inducing Pina Colada
Mix 3 parts of pineapple juice, 2 parts of white rum and 1 part of coconut cream with a bunch of crushed ice until it’s completely smooth. Serve in a tall chilled glass.
Don’t forget the maraschino cherry.