On the tenth day of a fortnight’s holiday in Tenerife, Mrs
Jones and I were flagging. A combination of Spanish sunshine, overeating, hefty
consumption of San Miguel lager and late-night revelling at the local Irish bars
had left us feeling weary. At 58 years old, we don’t possess the same level of
stamina as in our young adulthood. We decided on an early night – not with any
intention of rumpy-pumpy, as we were too tired for that nonsense; a sustained
30-seconds of pelvic thrusting was way beyond our capabilities. The (smallish) rational
parts of our brains insisted that less alcohol and more sleep would re-energise
us for the remainder of the holiday.
So at 8.30pm, rather than bouncing into town, we opted for a
quiet drink in our hotel bar as a prelude to bed. Perched on a leather settee,
we observed our spacious and opulent surroundings: sparkling chandeliers,
sturdy-oak coffee tables, mirrored walls, a bar displaying endless varieties of
liqueurs and spirits, and bow-tied waitresses - in white blouses and black
skirts - attentive to the needs of their guests. And oh so quiet. People spoke
in whispers, as if mindful to not corrupt the sumptuous surrounds. The most
noticeable sound was the clicking of stiletto on tile, as a waitress scurried
to replenish a glass. Mrs Jones and I sat in silence, sipping our lager
nightcaps; the heaviness of our lethargy made speech feel too much of an
effort.
But then something remarkable happened.
Very gradually, we grew aware of another noise. An
intermittent growling could be heard behind us, and we turned to discover the
source. A bald headed man, maybe in his 70s, was slumped in his armchair, a
half-full glass of stout on the table in front of him. His eyes were closed,
his hands clasped in his lap. At the same table were three vacant chairs, the
empty glasses in front of them suggesting recent occupation by his companions
prior to their desertion.
We watched him closely. He’d clearly been there a while, as
evidenced by the viscous spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. Each
inward breath evoked a rasping snore followed by a silent pause, this soundless
phase extending over several seconds, sufficiently long to evoke our concerns
that the old fella may have expired. It was clear that the waitresses’ thoughts
were along similar lines, each covertly monitoring him for signs of life as
they cleared neighbouring tables. When the outbreath arrived, we could detect a
collective sense of relief in the room.
I squeezed Mrs Jones’ hand and we turned to face each other.
It seemed our minds were reaching a common conclusion.
‘Life’s too short,’ I said.
***
Four hours later we could both be found in Paddy’s Bar, each holding a pint of
Caffrey’s, screeching a tuneless rendition of ‘The Wild Rover’.
Photograph courtesy of Samandale at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
