I have but recently returned from my annual Easter sojourn to the once glorious holiday destination of Brackish Spa. Now alas, a withered little town, given to Izal scented Old Peoples Homes and equally Izally purged theme pubs. The Brackish Waters were once rumoured to cure leprosy and other such maladies, but now it is not recommended to partake of the l'eau Brackish. The waters have only recently been discovered to be the primary cause of heartburn, diarrhoea and a nasty rash to the lower extremeties.
Every year my old school friend Elizabeth and I pack our portmanteaus and revisit Brackish Spa's unenticing areas. We must endure the mandatory trek to see her Auntie Maureen, this incorporates several visits to Shifty Acres, a residential house for the infirm and elderly. Shifty Acres is home to Elizabeth's Octaganerian mother, Gladys. Gladys was, and still is, a formidable female and it has always been a wonder to me that she had any offspring at all. She was a former Prison Officer and reform school gym teacher. When Gladys was around, I have to say that neither Elizabeth or I were ever at the mercy of bullies, yobs and other unwanted male attention during our girlish years.
I accompany Elizabeth on this, frankly arduous, week away, primarily to keep her spirits up, for I will suffer for it if I don't. Poor dear Elizabeth is a tad bitter about her lot in life and feels that the phrase "life's rich tapestry" is a mockery. Her backdrop is sagging and her threads are bare. It is tragic that the-powers-that-be were not in a generous mood towards Elizabeth when they were handing out life's gifts.
But how good it is to be in my house once more. I feel in need of a holiday, but the soothing balm of normality and the comforts of home are not to be underrated. Ahhh, the joys of running hot water and not having to bathe in a hip bath.