The creepy pool music is back. It's enough to send the hairs on the back of my neck to the moon. But instead of fighting the fear that I'm about to die like one of my teen heroines in a bad Goosebumps book, I'm taking in the gastric scenery. I'm in the basement (it does get better, I promise) but there's this entire restaurant down here I'd not seen. I thought I was dining with the plastics all week, and other humans! I'm spoiled! Maybe there will be some excitement this week.
I'm really fucking done with excitement today, and going off the current state of Little Bit I'd say she's had her quota for the day too. Shes flat out, across a chair bed missing all these new environments, can't say I blame her, she's got a cold nutella waffle to wake up to. You know the kind, as essential a bodily need as respiration to a mini dictator, until the minute it's in front of them and it's like I just invited her to snuggle an atomic bomb.
We've had an awesome day considering. I resolved that if nothing else, if this week is just one giant commute between playgrounds then all is not lost, she's had a load of fun, and if she tells me one more time that her 'Heart is Happy I think I might implode. Cute parenting moments, it's not all shite.
I hired an Benidorm-mobile (electric tricycle, allegedly). This was after careful consideration, and discovery that this was quite likely the only place to get a rental and I shouldn't whine about not not being able to get one with a child seat. On Christmas eve I think I was expecting a bit too much. Next approach was altering a bicycle seat so that I'd be upright enough to be able to carry Small in the sling. Not the ideal, but for a little poddle on the promenade it would've sufficed. Still nope. But that's more so due to me being about as coordinated as a drunk clown. I'm not drunk I promise. The man as adept with his NVQ level 94 in customer service signals the Benidorm-mobile, keen to help me find my 'thing', and quite probably being his only customer this month, it made sense for him to out the extra pizazz in. I laugh, then shudder. Then I figure, if it's the kind of holiday that I *could* wear my granny bashers regardless of the silhouette they don't give, or wear toddler shoes and woollen ankle socks all week long, nobody's gonna give two shits about how much of a twat I look.
I tell you now, 4 motorcycles I've owned and bar a few sketchy wall-bashing moments and the odd piece of titanium, I've never struggled to grasp vehicles with less than 4 wheels. 3 are a bastard nightmare!!
I wave the chappy off with the lasting detail on his face being the angst that he's going to end up hauling an English bird out of a ditch, and regretting pressing his card into my hands, 'just in case I need help'. But away we go.
We've been into Marmaris centre, so head the Other Way- Icmela (sp?). It's where my Dutch mate Hennie has his house and apparently is beautiful, so off we set. After a few shakey corners (the Benidorm-mobile has zero fucking stability, how do people ride scooters with this teeny weeny wheel base?!) I'm trundling into the distance and Small is rather enjoying it. Oh, it's a two seater type setup... shes basically had her own armchair to sit in, and the bumbag as her seatbelt. It really worked well actually, maybe being a grown up isn't so difficult after all.
We're heading there, getting to a point where there's a gargantuan post stating that entrance is patrolled by the Polis and under no circumstances are vehicles that move by anything other than necromancy allowed through. I quickly plan my route, stopping in the last cafe before The Box (it's capitalised due to the mental dedication it shortly received) to eat, restore our batteries and plan our journey. I Google maps the street I'm on, and whether it'd be feasible to go on the roadside pavement- which many are dedicated to other road users in a fashion I've never seen outside of Holland- and resolve eventually after a fair few panicked moments about the mom ethics of riding a tricycle alongside a road with a Small- to stick yo the beach path for however far it lasts before potentially turning back. Also a quick voice note to the Not-wife telling her the whereabouts of my spare e-visa printouts in case I'm brutally arrested for tricycular road contraventions and need to prove that I am indeed a tourist here, albeit a fucking dumb one, this festive week.
Icmela is beautiful, once we'd arrived there after a gallivant through what appeared to be a private beach path for the 20-somethings and retirees, and a soggy play in the rain sodden playground. Small then insisting she take her wet shoes and socks off and a prompt change into the backup joggers. Which was handy, as I finally succumbed to beach time. She loved it, looking a picture in her winter coat, hat and gloves, trousers rolled up to her knees. The only thing missing was a rolled up handkerchief hat and 99 with a flake.
I tried to write a failmas message in the sand, although she found great joy in scrubbing it out with every new letter I wrote, so we didn't get far. There wasn't much to do there, and Ichmela was very much 'kapal' until next spring, but there were some beautiful little roads, and we got much farther in our Benidorm-mobile than we ever would have on two legs and a shitty sling.
That's when the Benidorm-mobile hit the festive proverbial. Icmela can't be more than 3 miles from where we'd set off. But I imagine there hadn't been much custom to justify major servicing of our steed up to now, after all, I'd been given the 'best one' apparently. It started with a judder. I switch it onto 65+ promenade stroll at happy hour speed, thinking I've been tonking it too much. I felt for it really, considering it's chunky load and more mileage than it'd probably have done all winter.
It groaned, and slowed to less than walking pace, amused onlookers laughing at me, furiously jabbing at the switches and wringing the accelerator like my life depended on it.
I stop. Which is made all the more frustrating as Small is telling me to 'Drive please mommy, oh no'. Something like it kid, aye. Giving it a few minutes to rethink its approach, the Benidorm-mobile chugs a few more lurches before whirring to a laboured halt. I'm whispering to it like a jockey at the Grand National, but it doesn't seem to understand Barnsley. I've fucked it.
Two women who I believe are locals start talking to me. Could this be help that I'm unable to interpret? Does she have a charger under that size 10 frame somewhere? No. She hands me this.
She tells me there are good things for the future. I asked what about the immediate future? Will JW.org have the answers there for how to get this hate-mobile to move? They laugh and walk away.
Some good Samaritans there, pft.
I call Mr tricycle rental. Tell him I'm somewhere on a road on a 3 mile stretch with a name I can't pronounce. 15 minutes later he's there with his mate on a tiny Real scooter, off jumps Mr apprentice tricycle rental boy who asks if I was going up and down hills. Where exactly was he thinking I'd been? I don't know what I'd been expecting would be the outcome, but before I know it Small is sandwiched between me and Mr Rental trying to get off because we're going far faster than normally acceptable on any vehicle without helmets or a decent proficiency of the highway code. We look like those pictures you see of a Small family from a shanty town scooting back from the capital with 60 loo rolls and a goat tacked to the back.
I can feel the back end dragging like a dog and can almost hear his mind thinking he shouldn't have leased a fat bird and her kid a tricycle for the day, now he'll actually have to do something about servicing it.
I am handed the keys to a brand new steed and state that I'm only going for another hour or two as need to get back for out evening dinner. He says that's fine no problem etc. Cue another whizz into Marmaris centre, to try and find the sweet spot in the time space continuum where these fucking fountains dance. I'm unfortunate in that I don't see 'No vehicles' sign and get heartily whistled at by an actual Polis-man so hastily retreat to a waffle joint in the outskirts of this fountain square to reassess. Small demands her waffle then proceeds to terrorise the poor cafe-owner. It's bloody beautiful outside though, catching sunset before setting off again.
Getting an email from Hennie (Header-'Hellootje'- 'little hellos', or just a cute typo) inviting me to join him for dinner at 6.30pm at a cafe, two of which show on Google maps as either being bang next to our hotel or further into the town. It's also 7.15pm and I need to get Small back so head to return the Benidorm-mobile before finding him. It's also bloody freezing now, so whizz as fast as I can. It's a good mile further than I thought my turn off to the rental was before I realise I'm halfway back to Icmela, and that it's awfully quiet.
Have I lost my load? Oh god, tell me I haven't lost precious cargo in my hurry to get back, I can almost see the headlines now. And no fucker would find her until spring when the first plane load disembarks.
She's safe. And not in a ditch. My trusty bumbag saw to that (I'm so glad I didn't scrimp on the purchase, I'm almost certain the £3.99 one wouldn't have had half the safety features).
But no Mr Rental. I call him 3 times, park the Benidorm-mobile on the parkway and leave a note stating I'll bring the keys back in the morning. Two Benidorm-mobiles and I can't get rid of the fucker now!
And she's still asleep. Which takes me to a sleeping child on the bed, missing all the Christmas eve films, with a box of cold smuggled out food for if she ever wakes up to be able to open her Christmas Eve present. At least until I disturb her. She's passed out in dinosaur pants, so I'm 3 hours into borrowed time here.
Merry Christmas Eve everyone, it's snuggles and gin-o-clock
Sleeping Small and frayed-nerves Mama
X
I'm really fucking done with excitement today, and going off the current state of Little Bit I'd say she's had her quota for the day too. Shes flat out, across a chair bed missing all these new environments, can't say I blame her, she's got a cold nutella waffle to wake up to. You know the kind, as essential a bodily need as respiration to a mini dictator, until the minute it's in front of them and it's like I just invited her to snuggle an atomic bomb.
We've had an awesome day considering. I resolved that if nothing else, if this week is just one giant commute between playgrounds then all is not lost, she's had a load of fun, and if she tells me one more time that her 'Heart is Happy I think I might implode. Cute parenting moments, it's not all shite.
I hired an Benidorm-mobile (electric tricycle, allegedly). This was after careful consideration, and discovery that this was quite likely the only place to get a rental and I shouldn't whine about not not being able to get one with a child seat. On Christmas eve I think I was expecting a bit too much. Next approach was altering a bicycle seat so that I'd be upright enough to be able to carry Small in the sling. Not the ideal, but for a little poddle on the promenade it would've sufficed. Still nope. But that's more so due to me being about as coordinated as a drunk clown. I'm not drunk I promise. The man as adept with his NVQ level 94 in customer service signals the Benidorm-mobile, keen to help me find my 'thing', and quite probably being his only customer this month, it made sense for him to out the extra pizazz in. I laugh, then shudder. Then I figure, if it's the kind of holiday that I *could* wear my granny bashers regardless of the silhouette they don't give, or wear toddler shoes and woollen ankle socks all week long, nobody's gonna give two shits about how much of a twat I look.
I tell you now, 4 motorcycles I've owned and bar a few sketchy wall-bashing moments and the odd piece of titanium, I've never struggled to grasp vehicles with less than 4 wheels. 3 are a bastard nightmare!!
I wave the chappy off with the lasting detail on his face being the angst that he's going to end up hauling an English bird out of a ditch, and regretting pressing his card into my hands, 'just in case I need help'. But away we go.
We've been into Marmaris centre, so head the Other Way- Icmela (sp?). It's where my Dutch mate Hennie has his house and apparently is beautiful, so off we set. After a few shakey corners (the Benidorm-mobile has zero fucking stability, how do people ride scooters with this teeny weeny wheel base?!) I'm trundling into the distance and Small is rather enjoying it. Oh, it's a two seater type setup... shes basically had her own armchair to sit in, and the bumbag as her seatbelt. It really worked well actually, maybe being a grown up isn't so difficult after all.
Icmela is beautiful, once we'd arrived there after a gallivant through what appeared to be a private beach path for the 20-somethings and retirees, and a soggy play in the rain sodden playground. Small then insisting she take her wet shoes and socks off and a prompt change into the backup joggers. Which was handy, as I finally succumbed to beach time. She loved it, looking a picture in her winter coat, hat and gloves, trousers rolled up to her knees. The only thing missing was a rolled up handkerchief hat and 99 with a flake.
I tried to write a failmas message in the sand, although she found great joy in scrubbing it out with every new letter I wrote, so we didn't get far. There wasn't much to do there, and Ichmela was very much 'kapal' until next spring, but there were some beautiful little roads, and we got much farther in our Benidorm-mobile than we ever would have on two legs and a shitty sling.
That's when the Benidorm-mobile hit the festive proverbial. Icmela can't be more than 3 miles from where we'd set off. But I imagine there hadn't been much custom to justify major servicing of our steed up to now, after all, I'd been given the 'best one' apparently. It started with a judder. I switch it onto 65+ promenade stroll at happy hour speed, thinking I've been tonking it too much. I felt for it really, considering it's chunky load and more mileage than it'd probably have done all winter.
It groaned, and slowed to less than walking pace, amused onlookers laughing at me, furiously jabbing at the switches and wringing the accelerator like my life depended on it.
I stop. Which is made all the more frustrating as Small is telling me to 'Drive please mommy, oh no'. Something like it kid, aye. Giving it a few minutes to rethink its approach, the Benidorm-mobile chugs a few more lurches before whirring to a laboured halt. I'm whispering to it like a jockey at the Grand National, but it doesn't seem to understand Barnsley. I've fucked it.
Two women who I believe are locals start talking to me. Could this be help that I'm unable to interpret? Does she have a charger under that size 10 frame somewhere? No. She hands me this.
Some good Samaritans there, pft.
I call Mr tricycle rental. Tell him I'm somewhere on a road on a 3 mile stretch with a name I can't pronounce. 15 minutes later he's there with his mate on a tiny Real scooter, off jumps Mr apprentice tricycle rental boy who asks if I was going up and down hills. Where exactly was he thinking I'd been? I don't know what I'd been expecting would be the outcome, but before I know it Small is sandwiched between me and Mr Rental trying to get off because we're going far faster than normally acceptable on any vehicle without helmets or a decent proficiency of the highway code. We look like those pictures you see of a Small family from a shanty town scooting back from the capital with 60 loo rolls and a goat tacked to the back.
I can feel the back end dragging like a dog and can almost hear his mind thinking he shouldn't have leased a fat bird and her kid a tricycle for the day, now he'll actually have to do something about servicing it.
I am handed the keys to a brand new steed and state that I'm only going for another hour or two as need to get back for out evening dinner. He says that's fine no problem etc. Cue another whizz into Marmaris centre, to try and find the sweet spot in the time space continuum where these fucking fountains dance. I'm unfortunate in that I don't see 'No vehicles' sign and get heartily whistled at by an actual Polis-man so hastily retreat to a waffle joint in the outskirts of this fountain square to reassess. Small demands her waffle then proceeds to terrorise the poor cafe-owner. It's bloody beautiful outside though, catching sunset before setting off again.
Getting an email from Hennie (Header-'Hellootje'- 'little hellos', or just a cute typo) inviting me to join him for dinner at 6.30pm at a cafe, two of which show on Google maps as either being bang next to our hotel or further into the town. It's also 7.15pm and I need to get Small back so head to return the Benidorm-mobile before finding him. It's also bloody freezing now, so whizz as fast as I can. It's a good mile further than I thought my turn off to the rental was before I realise I'm halfway back to Icmela, and that it's awfully quiet.
Have I lost my load? Oh god, tell me I haven't lost precious cargo in my hurry to get back, I can almost see the headlines now. And no fucker would find her until spring when the first plane load disembarks.
She's safe. And not in a ditch. My trusty bumbag saw to that (I'm so glad I didn't scrimp on the purchase, I'm almost certain the £3.99 one wouldn't have had half the safety features).
But no Mr Rental. I call him 3 times, park the Benidorm-mobile on the parkway and leave a note stating I'll bring the keys back in the morning. Two Benidorm-mobiles and I can't get rid of the fucker now!
And she's still asleep. Which takes me to a sleeping child on the bed, missing all the Christmas eve films, with a box of cold smuggled out food for if she ever wakes up to be able to open her Christmas Eve present. At least until I disturb her. She's passed out in dinosaur pants, so I'm 3 hours into borrowed time here.
Merry Christmas Eve everyone, it's snuggles and gin-o-clock
Sleeping Small and frayed-nerves Mama
X
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