market. Maybe I should get a T-shirt with Nirvana on it or something — that might make me seem like one of the kids. But he just scowled across and I tramped on. Just say no, that's my motto, unless asked.
When I got to our room I phoned Trish. She had her head screwed on. She could give me good advice. I always listened to her.
She said, 'What?'
'As you know, I got sunburned and had to spend three days in bed.'
'What sort of a Clampett are you?'
'A red one. It wasn't my fault.'
'Well, whose fault was it?'
'It was the sun's fault. It's far too hot here for a pale-skinned Irishman.'
'Don't talk balls. And one of these days you're going to have to make your mind up whether you're Irish or British.'
'Yeah — me and about a million and a half others. I think the strict rule of thumb is I'm British unless I'm on a plane that's been hijacked, then I'm definitely Irish.'
Patricia shook her head. Obviously I couldn't see that she was shaking her head, but she's my wife, I know she shakes her head when I talk. She ignored my point and went straight for the kill: 'If he's met someone, you should be pleased. What did you expect him to do, hang around feeding you grapes? It's not his fault you're a complete eejit.'
'Well, I'm glad I called you for moral support.'
'Dan, if anyone needs moral support it's Davie. He was jilted at the altar, his heart's been broken, you should be out there cheering him on, not giving him a hard time.'
'But he sent me out of that hotel like I was . . . like I was a wee kid or something.' There was only static from the other end of the line. 'You can contradict that any time you like,' I said.
'Dan, give him a break. You know, you're a big boy, you're quite capable of looking after yourself.'
'Yes, I am. So I should just get in the car and drive off for a couple of days, give him a taste of his own medicine.'
'Don't do that, Dan. .Please.'
'Why not?'
'Because you're always doing rash things you regret later.'
'That's not true.'
'Okay — so you don't always regret them. It's lucky you have me around to pick up the pieces.'
'Well, you're not here.'
'A — I wasn't invited. And B — there aren't any pieces to pick up. You spooked him by sneaking up on him. Leave him be — he'll come round in his own time.'
'So what am I supposed to do? Just get my thong on and hang out on the beach?'
'Dan, please don't mention yourself and a thong in the same sentence. I'll have nightmares.'
I sighed. I told her I loved her. She told me she loved me. I told her I loved her more. She told me I probably did. I hung up. I phoned back to prove I'd only been joking, but she'd put the answer-machine on. I left her a long message of love and devotion, although the recording cut out halfway through. I talked to the static anyway. It felt good to get it out.
Maybe she was right. Davie was just highly strung. I should give him space and time and support. I should get drunk. Everything would look better with a little alcohol. Or a lot. We had some bottles of Bud in the room fridge. There was a cool-bag I'd picked up at the airport. I would get some music and chill out by the pool; I could dip in and out.of the water, and in and out of the sun; gradually my freckles would join up into a perfect tan. I would indeed become bronzed.
I had brought a Walkman, but my ears had thus far been too burned to listen to it, but now they were fine and ready to rock. And, like all Ulstermen on holiday, our unpacking had consisted of taking our bags and sticking them in a wardrobe, then rifling through them as need demanded. The Walkman and my collection of CDs were somewhere near the bottom of mine. Some people's musical taste can be described as catholic, but mine is whatever the opposite of that is. Protestant — or so narrow and lacking in imagination that you could call it Free Presbyterian. My choice starts in 1976 and ends somewhere around the early 1980s. Where that could mean Chicago and Cliff Richard in someone
When I got to our room I phoned Trish. She had her head screwed on. She could give me good advice. I always listened to her.
She said, 'What?'
'As you know, I got sunburned and had to spend three days in bed.'
'What sort of a Clampett are you?'
'A red one. It wasn't my fault.'
'Well, whose fault was it?'
'It was the sun's fault. It's far too hot here for a pale-skinned Irishman.'
'Don't talk balls. And one of these days you're going to have to make your mind up whether you're Irish or British.'
'Yeah — me and about a million and a half others. I think the strict rule of thumb is I'm British unless I'm on a plane that's been hijacked, then I'm definitely Irish.'
Patricia shook her head. Obviously I couldn't see that she was shaking her head, but she's my wife, I know she shakes her head when I talk. She ignored my point and went straight for the kill: 'If he's met someone, you should be pleased. What did you expect him to do, hang around feeding you grapes? It's not his fault you're a complete eejit.'
'Well, I'm glad I called you for moral support.'
'Dan, if anyone needs moral support it's Davie. He was jilted at the altar, his heart's been broken, you should be out there cheering him on, not giving him a hard time.'
'But he sent me out of that hotel like I was . . . like I was a wee kid or something.' There was only static from the other end of the line. 'You can contradict that any time you like,' I said.
'Dan, give him a break. You know, you're a big boy, you're quite capable of looking after yourself.'
'Yes, I am. So I should just get in the car and drive off for a couple of days, give him a taste of his own medicine.'
'Don't do that, Dan. .Please.'
'Why not?'
'Because you're always doing rash things you regret later.'
'That's not true.'
'Okay — so you don't always regret them. It's lucky you have me around to pick up the pieces.'
'Well, you're not here.'
'A — I wasn't invited. And B — there aren't any pieces to pick up. You spooked him by sneaking up on him. Leave him be — he'll come round in his own time.'
'So what am I supposed to do? Just get my thong on and hang out on the beach?'
'Dan, please don't mention yourself and a thong in the same sentence. I'll have nightmares.'
I sighed. I told her I loved her. She told me she loved me. I told her I loved her more. She told me I probably did. I hung up. I phoned back to prove I'd only been joking, but she'd put the answer-machine on. I left her a long message of love and devotion, although the recording cut out halfway through. I talked to the static anyway. It felt good to get it out.
Maybe she was right. Davie was just highly strung. I should give him space and time and support. I should get drunk. Everything would look better with a little alcohol. Or a lot. We had some bottles of Bud in the room fridge. There was a cool-bag I'd picked up at the airport. I would get some music and chill out by the pool; I could dip in and out.of the water, and in and out of the sun; gradually my freckles would join up into a perfect tan. I would indeed become bronzed.
I had brought a Walkman, but my ears had thus far been too burned to listen to it, but now they were fine and ready to rock. And, like all Ulstermen on holiday, our unpacking had consisted of taking our bags and sticking them in a wardrobe, then rifling through them as need demanded. The Walkman and my collection of CDs were somewhere near the bottom of mine. Some people's musical taste can be described as catholic, but mine is whatever the opposite of that is. Protestant — or so narrow and lacking in imagination that you could call it Free Presbyterian. My choice starts in 1976 and ends somewhere around the early 1980s. Where that could mean Chicago and Cliff Richard in someone
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