Holiday with Stress 2000
For our holidays
this year we had a three-week jaunt around the country to Muthill [south of
Crieff], Edinburgh and York. Not a bad time but it did raise again the question
of why we subject ourselves to the stresses and strains of life under the
disguise of having a good time. By the time we returned home Anne was worn
out and I was not a bundle of energy myself.
At Muthill we had rented a small flat in the Main Street owned by a young
minister, son of a friend of the family. We returned one afternoon to find
the police in attendance and three or four cars battered about up and down
the street. It appeared that one of them hadn't made the bend and had slid
along on its side bouncing off the others. I was so glad it had. If it had
bounced the other way it would have gone through the front window of the minister's
flat and ruined my holiday.
We invited the Whitefields to come with us for two of the days out
of the four we were there. On learning this, the Rev was much upset and called
it a bit of cheek, or some such felicitous phrase. He roundly rebuked me for
not telling him beforehand. Since I thought we had, and we certainly had discussed
the availability of beds, it appears there was some misunderstanding.
In Edinburgh we had to park the car in a multi-storey carpark some quarter
of a mile away from our upmarket hotel in Princes Street. But not to worry
because the lady had said she would send a porter down to meet us. Only now
that crunch time had arrived, she wouldn't. We both felt rather sore, literally
and metaphorically, and complained to the said lady once we had climbed the
hill to the hotel, with luggage, then climbed the long flight of stairs to
Reception on the first floor. I could hear the steam coming out of Anne's
ears.
The lady, the duty manageress, was not happy with what we said, and denied
that she had ever offered to send a porter. Voices were not raised, but we
were both unhappy. Then the lady said that she could not accept the situation,
there was obviously going to be difficulty accommodating our requirements
and she requested that we leave. This seemed to be a wee bit of over-reaction
and I demurred. She threatened to call the police. Anne enquired if it was
not permissible to complain in this hotel.
The lady turned and left the room. She came back in and said that she was
so sorry for the mistake she had made, that she had completely blown the situation
and that she was so very sorry. I asked her if she was having a bad day and
she said - no - a bad life. She then asked if we would go to our room and
settle in and return later for dinner which would be on the house.
And so it was. And she stretched out her hand at least three times towards
me as though trying to fondle me. For the rest of our stay she was all smiles
and cooing. If I had asked her to lick my feet she would have done so.
We then went out to an adjacent self-service place for a cup of tea. The menu
said Bowl of Soup [served with a roll] £1.70. So we ordered two soups,
picked up a couple of stickies and something to drink. Only after we unpacked
it all at the table did we realise we had not got our two rolls. So I went
back to the counter. The chit behind it said we had not
asked for rolls and so had not got them and had been charged only £1.50.
Well, can I have them now? Sure, help yourself. I did. Her buddy at the till
rang them up and asked for £1.10. It transpired that rolls with soup
were 20p each. Rolls alone were 55p - for a tuppenny roll. I protested, loudly.
It transpired she could not charge me 20p each because she could not ring
up cash amounts - she rang up the item by name, and a roll came up as 55p.
At that point I lost my cool. I dug into my pocket and pulled out just enough
change to make 40p and told her to do with it as she pleased. She said - ‘Do
you wish to speak to the manager?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘send
him over.’ But he never came.
The following day we took part in the price of fuel protest by a mile of lorries
queuing up along Princes Street. Our role was quite passive, but I was glad
to think I had spoiled Blair's day.
On the bus to York there were two problems - the driver was irascible and
undiplomatic, and the air conditioning system could not distinguish between
the back of the bus and the front. Some wanted it on and some wanted it off.
We took no part but one woman is going to the tour office to-morrow morning
and she is going to tell them....... Meanwhile the driver was passing a sheet
of paper round the bus and taking a vote in order to divide and rule as whether
the cool was on or off. And so on. It was never like that on Caledonian McBrayne
steamers.
All in all it was quite an exciting holiday. We came home to recover.
The last week was a working week and the last week-end we were to go to stay
at Anne's sister's house in Troon - without meeting up with Anne’s sister,
Mary. We chucked it. It dawned on Anne that on the Monday morning she started
back at work. So we did the washing instead and went to bed. What better?
Copyright © Alan Sinclair 2000