You go to the RSL for dinner and while you are there an appropriately plump Elvis impersonator starts up, crooning flirtatiously to the elderly ladies. You have the roast as it's the cheapest thing on the menu and it's Dad's shout. Dad pulls a plastic takeaway container from his manbag and frugally saves the leftovers for tomorrow.
After dinner you go upstairs to the hall for the Saturday night dance. You can't do any of the dances - except a dimly remembered Pride of Erin from your high school deb. Dad insists on dancing every dance with you anyway. Your feet get blistered and you look like a troll, tromping and stumbling around as the other couples glide by.
Dad wows all the ladies with his Mediterranean charm. Also there are always more women dancers than men. You finally convince him you will not die of loneliness if he gets up and dances with someone else.
You make a cup of tea. 'Is there any milk?' you ask Clara, who's sharing your table and has already offered some mixed lollies. She looks at you oddly. 'Yes,' she says. 'Where will I find it?' you press. 'We don't put it out until it's time for tea,' she says, in a voice that implies you were obviously not taught correct manners. No tea on demand? What restraint! In your immersion in the creed of instant gratification, you find this most odd.At nine-thirty precisely supper is served. Two sponges, a plate of egg-and-lettuce sandwiches, some butterfly cakes and a chocolate slice.
The Queen looks on from her royal box, high on the wall, next to the Honour Roll. She is most amused.
Amid glass bottom boat tours over coral reefs and rainbow fish, spectacular waterfalls, trips on chairlifts through tropical rainforest and accommodation in a luxurious hotel, it's the highlight of Dad's week.
1 comment:
What beautiful posts these are. Twelve weeks schmeeks. I told everyone as soon as the lines were pink too (tho I thought mine were blue - am I making that up?). Congratulations, and may all go smooth as from here.
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