A relaxing afternoon by the pool

If I hold the book right in front of the sun, the sun won’t get in my eyes.

But that hurts my arms. I’ll turn the other way, and lie with my back to the sun.

Damn. Can’t turn the page in that position. How about hand up, blocking the sun?

This is the relaxing afternoon. The one where we don’t do anything. We just go to the pool and relax, like normal people do on holiday. A little swim, then a retreat to the sun-lounger for a read.

The water’s lovely. A splash here, a half-hearted attempt at a couple of lengths there, then a “I think I’m going to get out now.”

I’ll stay in, I think. It’s fun. I like swimming. But that weird guilt factor strikes. It’s virtually impossible to spend more than ten minutes in a pool after the person you got in with gets out. They’ve got out for a reason. They must have. You’ve been in too long. That was ten minutes ago. This is now veering into dangerous indulgence territory. You’ll regret it. Best get out too.

“Did you bring the sun cream down?”

Shoes on. Shirt on. To the lift. To the room. Key out of pocke… Oh, bollocks.

To the lift. To the pool. Is the key in your handbag?

To the lift. To the room. Look in the bathroom. Scramble around in the day bag. No, it’s more than 100ml. It’ll be in the case. Under the dresses? Tucked into the going out shoes? Ah – random plastic bag.

To the lift. To the pool. Can you do my back? Can you do my back?

The lounger’s too low. Can I adjust it while I’m still on it? Arm round the back, try and find the slot, nearly there… Damn it.

Up and round the back. Second slot or third slot? Third looks about right.

Back on and lie down. Hmm, a bit low to safely drink the water without spilling it all over myself.

Up and round the back. Second slot.

That’s better. Time for a good, long read. Ah. Did you put my book in your handbag earlier?

Shoes on. Shirt on. To the lift. To the room. Key out of pocke… Hnnnnnngggggggg.

To the lift. To the pool. Did I give you the key back when I went to get the sun cream?

To reception. Embarrassed begging as if I’m the first guest to have ever left a key in the room. “Can you tell us what name the room is booked under?”

Whitley.

“And have you got any ID, just for security reasons.”

To the pool. Swift about-turn. To reception. Sorry. My wallet’s in the room too.

Security’s never that strict. They always give in. To the room. Where did I put the bloody key? Table? No. Bed? No. Next to the telly? No. Search, search, search. Why the hell would I have left it in the bathroom.

To the lift. About-turn. Back to the room. To the day bag. Come on then, book.

To the lift. To the pool. To the lounger. Staring straight into the sun.

“We should do more of these relaxing afternoons, you know.”

All content copyright David Whitley. My recommended books, travel gear and music