We bid Mimi a pleasant goodbye once her job is done, and set about unpacking our suitcases, which of course have already been brought in by other smiling members of the Mildew Wibblefushi resort.
'None of them asked for a tip,' says Laura, as she begins to unpack about forty eight different bikinis. 'Muresh at The Dorchester wouldn't approve.'
'What?'
'Nothing, dear. Why don't you take Poppy onto the deck outside with the guest brochure while I unpack?'
I'm dumbfounded. 'Are you actually suggesting that I don't do any work?'
'Yes, Jamie. But only because if I allow you to unpack your own clothes, I will be spending the entire week with a walking crease.' She turns to where Poppy is already fiddling with the TV remote control. 'Poppy? Go and see the fish with Dad.'
Without questioning further, Pops and I make our way out through a set of pristine sliding doors onto the large wooden deck with the kind of view that immediately takes your breath away, and sells it on the black market in Hong Kong. Poppy immediately walks down the steps that lead to the ocean, while I park myself on one of the loungers and begin to read the brochure.
Considering these places are generally meant for people who just want to sit on their arses for a week, I'm surprised to see quite so many excursions and facilities on offer to occupy your time. There are snorkelling trips, diving adventures, and sailing days out. There's a gym, an outdoor cinema, and a snooker room. You can kayak, paddle board and even go out on a -
'Laura! Laura!'
'What?' my wife replies, hurrying out onto the deck with a concerned look on her face. 'What's the matter? Is it Poppy? Is she alright?'
'Yeah, yeah, I'm sure she's fine,' I say, without even bothering to check whether my daughter has been swept out to sea or not. 'They've got a pedalo here!'
'Excuse me?'
'A pedalo! It's a boat that you sit in and pedal, like you get on boating lakes back home.'
'Yes Jamie. I know what a pedalo is, thank you very much. Why on earth would you be excited about that?'
I go very quiet.
'What's the matter?' Laura asks.
'Never got to go on one,' I mumble.
'What do you mean?'
This might sound pathetic, but when I was a child on parental excursions to the seaside, my biggest desire was to have a go on a pedalo. Other children wanted to play in the arcades, build sandcastles on the beach, or eat chips until they burst, but all I wanted to do was sit in a large fibre glass boat with pedals and make my way around the whole boating lake until I was sick from over-exertion.
But it never happened.
You wouldn't imagine it possible, but on every single family day trip out during the formative years of my life, there were either no pedalos in the vicinity, or they were all being used by other holidaymakers. In fact, the only time I got close was on a visit to Canoe Lake in Southsea when I was ten. If it hadn't been my stupid sister bleating on about wanting to visit the nearby natural history museum, I would have had my go in a pedalo, dammit. But she couldn't stand to wait even ten minutes, so we had to go traipsing off to look at stuffed birds and fossils for an hour. I managed to hold my counsel until we reached the geology display, before I burst into tears and started stamping my feet. My mother, father, and the rather harassed young woman who ran the museum tried to calm me down, but to no avail. I was only mollified when I was allowed to leave the decrepit old building and return to the boating lake.
You can imagine my complete and total dismay when we discovered that the pedalo vendor had buggered off home for the day, and all the lovely big plastic red pedalos were chained up and no longer in use. I then proceeded to punch Sarah so hard on the arm that I believe the bruise has only just cleared up.
Not feeling the need to relay all this childhood misery to my wife, I elect to keep things simple. 'I've just never been on a pedalo before. Never had the chance.' I tell her.
Her brow crinkles. 'What, never?'
'No. Please don't make me talk about it.'
Laura sighs. 'Okay, my little boy. If you want a go on a pedalo, then who am I to argue?'
I beam at her happily.
'Mum! Dad! Look what I've got!' Poppy squeals with delight, coming straight at us both with a huge, pissed off looking blue crab clutched in her hands. All thoughts of pedalos and other waterborne entertainments are forgotten for the moment, as we try to wrestle the gigantic crustacean from Poppy's grip before it either dies or rips one of her ears off.
There's every chance a career in natural history is in my daughter's future, if she can just get past the poking phase, that is.
But of course, gentle reader, you already know that my pedalo based fantasy has not come true...
That no matter how hard I have tried over the past seven days, I have been unable to fulfill my childhood ambition.
You see, there is only one pedalo on the entire island. Ridiculous, yes?
There should be two, but one is broken, thanks to an over enthusiastic holiday maker crashing it into a reef and ripping a two foot hole in the fibre glass.
So, that's one pedalo to be shared between 364 guests.
How do I know exactly how many guests there are on Madwiddly Womblefishy? Because I've bloody counted them, that's why. I had to. I simply couldn't believe that one tiny insignificant pedalo could be in such high demand, so I had to know exactly how many people I'd been competing against all week for its usage.
Not that everyone has used the pedalo, of course. I've been keeping watch every time the sodding thing has come past me on yet another tour of the small island, being driven by some other bastard in a bathing suit, and it's plain that there are only a few people who actually use it.
There are at least two German couples who seem to have taken a great liking to the pedalo. I have counted them going past me on at least twenty occasions in the past week. I know they are German because I have engaged both in conversation at meal times. Know your enemy, as Winston Churchill would have probably said at some point.
Then there are the Chinese. Who knew that an entire nation of people whose country is two thirds landlocked, would enjoy a bit of aquatic pedalling action so much? It seems like every time I drag my family down to the end of the beach where the pedalo and kayaks are stored, we invariably see a group of Chinese people dragging the thing down to the shoreline, and jumping in with big smiles on their faces.
I then have to suffer the indignity of going out onto the water in a bloody kayak. There is no shortage of kayaks on Melbibbly Wimbewayfooshy. Not by a long shot.
But I've been kayaking thousands of times. The novelty wears off after a while, even if you are cruising over tropical reefs and exciting multi-coloured fish.
To compound my frustration, I would see other guests out on the pedalo while sat in one of the plentiful kayaks. This just rubbed salt into the wound.
It's got to the point where I have been making excuses to Laura just to go off on my own, to see if I can grab the pedalo while no-one is looking.
'Just, er, just going down to the cocktail bar to get a beer, baby,' I say to her yesterday, getting up from the sun lounger in as casual a manner as possible.
'There are loads of beers in the fridge, Jamie,' she replies from over her copy of Cosmopolitan.
'Um... I just fancied a different kind. Maybe something from Asia. I'm a bit bored with Corona.'
'Since when did you become such a beer aficionado? You've never - ' Her eyes widen. 'You're going to see if that bloody pedalo is free again, aren't you?'
'No!'
'Yes you bloody are!' Cosmo goes down onto her lap and she points a pointy finger in my direction. 'Just let it go Jamie! It's all you've gone on about all week!'
'No it isn't.'
'Yes it is! It's very hard to enjoy paradise when your significant other keeps making grumbling noises every time he sees a group of Chinese people float past in a big plastic dinghy.'
'It's a pedalo, not a dinghy,' I correct in a sull
en voice.
'Whatever Jamie! Just drop it. It doesn't matter.'
But it does matter. At least to me!
And so here we are, on the last morning of our holiday.
And I have a plan.
It is a good plan. A solid plan. A plan that can only result in my successful acquisition of the pedalo, before we fly from the island later this afternoon.
From my detailed study of the pedalo's movements, I know that Richie, the guy who works in the boathouse, doesn't open until 10am; sometimes ten past if he's feeling lazy. I have tried on two occasions to be down there at 10am to get the pedalo before anybody else, but there has always been a queue.
To ensure that I would be the one to secure the pedalo on my last day, I had to do something to deter people of either German or Chinese extraction from getting down there before me and laying claim to the object of my unhealthy obsession.
This involved a pillow case, some chewing gum, Laura's eye liner, and a very early start...
At five this morning I was awoken by the vibrating of my iPhone from under my pillow. Without waking Laura I grabbed the pillow case and eye liner, and sneaked my way out of the water bungalow. Successfully managing to dodge the island's staff as they went about early morning jobs, I made my way stealthily to the boat house, where I stuck the pillow case onto the wall with the chewing gum, having written the legend 'PLEASE COME BACK AT 11AM' on it with the eye liner.
Genius!
Anyone who beat me down to the boat house before 10 o'clock would go away again, thinking lazy old Ritchie wasn't getting there until an hour later!
Fool proof!
The pedalo would be mine!
The second part of the plan involves convincing my wife that I really, really need a shit. I have to have a good reason why I need to leave her and Poppy at breakfast early, don't I?
'Oh dear,' I remark over my bacon and eggs. I also theatrically clutch my stomach and grimace.
'What's up?' Laura asks.
'My stomach feels funny,' I say, affecting a worried tone.
'Does it?'
'Yeah. It feels a bit... a bit fajita-like.'
Laura looks a little sick. 'Oh dear. Perhaps you should... you know?'
I nod vigorously. 'Yes. Perhaps I should.'
Assured that my ruse is working like a charm, I rise from the table and scuttle out through the palm tree fringed dining hall, making a direct bee-line for the boat house on the other side of the tiny island. A glance at my watch confirms that it is ten minutes to ten. By the time I reach Ritchie and his selection of fibre glass wonders, it should be ten o'clock, without the hint of another holiday maker in the vicinity.
I round a particularly thick cluster of palm trees, and the thatched roof of the boat house comes into sight.
...as does Ritchie and a small middle aged gentleman, who is picking up the end of the pedalo and moving towards the sea.
Aaarrgghh!
How can this be happening?
My sign was bloody fool proof!
My confident jog turns into a panicked scamper as I make my way across the white sand to my quarry... and my new enemy. As I get closer I can see that the man is easily in his late sixties, and is under five foot six. He's wearing bright blue long shorts and a white vest that exposes something of a pigeon chest. If it comes down to fisticuffs, I'm fairly sure I can take him. I recognise the old codger from somewhere, but can't quite put my finger on it. I must have seen him around the resort over the last week.
As I speed past the front of the boat house, I glance over to see my poor make-shift sign in a bedraggled heap on the decking, with a fat seagull on top of it, pecking away at one of the corners. It looks like he's after the chewing gum.
I hope you choke on it bird!
You can now truly see the depths of my irrationality here, can't you? I am actively wishing death on an innocent sea creature just because it's jeopardised my cunning plan to secure a ride in a rather shit plastic boat.
As I near Ritchie and the vest wearing pedalo stealer, I decide that the best way to handle this situation is with a display of Great British brashness.
'I say!' I bellow, one finger pointed aloft. 'I say there! I've booked that pedalo for myself today!'
You can't book the pedalo out - it's first come first served, but if I shout it loud enough I might sound convincing anyway.
Ritchie looks up at me, and his face drops with a look of familiar dread. 'Good morning, Mr Newman,' he says in clipped English. 'How are you today?'
I stop right in front of both men and put my hands on my hips. My nose goes in the air and I stare straight out into the ocean. 'Not happy Ritchie! Not happy at all!'
'And why is that Mr Newman?'
'You can plainly see why, Ritchie! I have asked you for usage of this pedalo all week, and not once have I been allowed to have it!'
Ritchie's shoulders slump. 'That's not true Mr Newman, you just keep coming over when somebody has already taken it out. If you had waited a little long - '
'I have a family to take care of Ritchie!' I exclaim imperiously. 'I can't just spend my entire time hanging out with you, waiting for Chinese people to return the pedalo, can I?'
'No, I suppose not, Mr Newman,' Ritchie agrees with a sigh.
'Excuse me?' says the small elderly gentleman. 'Can I take the pedalo out now please?'
Ritchie nods. 'Yes of course sir!' he says with a smile.
Oh god. This is getting away from me fast. I have to do something!
'No!' I bellow once more, and stamp my way around to the front of the pedalo, blocking its path to the sea. 'This pedalo is mine good sir, and I expect you to stand aside and wait your turn!'
The old man scowls at me in such a way that my sense of recollection gets even stronger. Where have I seen that scowl before?
'I will do no such thing!' he snaps. 'I got here first, laddie. Now you just stand aside and allow me to use it!'
That strident tone... Why do I recognise that strident tone?
In desperation, I try to appeal to their charitable side. 'I have cancer!'
'What?!' Ritchie and the old man say in unison.
'Yes! Cancer! You wouldn't deny a dying man his last ride in a pedalo, would you?'
My degree of insanity has now reached a level that not even Laura would believe.
'You look fine to me,' the old man says, giving me a suspicious look.
Where do I know him from?
'Well, I may look fine,' I begin, simultaneously trying to bolster my awful lie, and trying to remember why I recognise him so much. 'But the doctor says I may only have three months to... '
I trail off.
Doctor.
A doctor...
I mentally place a cream coloured pork pie hat on the old man's head, put a red, question mark shaped umbrella cane in his hand, and place a big blue Police box behind him.
'Are you Sylvester McCoy?' I ask in a hushed tone.
The old man draws himself up to his full five foot six inches. 'Yes, I am young man! Now kindly step aside!'
Well, this is excellent. I'm standing in thirty degree heat on the last day of a holiday that's been ruined by a childhood obsession, and I'm trying to steal a pedalo from Doctor Who by claiming I have a fatal disease.
I should just give up and fuck off back to the breakfast table, but even the prospect of offending the seventh Doctor won't stop me now. Nor will punching him in the face, if it comes down to it.
'Look Doctor... '
'That's not my name! It's Mister McCoy to you, laddie!'
At this moment Ritchie interrupts. 'Are you a doctor sir?' he asks McCoy. 'Perhaps you could help Mr Newman here with his illness?'
God bless you Ritchie. In the teeth of a brewing argument, you are trying your level best to bring both parties to the negotiating table.
'He's not a doctor Ritchie. He's The Doctor,' I try to explain. 'You know? Doctor Who?'
Ritchie looks puzzled. 'But he is much taller and th
inner on the television. His chin is much larger too.'
'That's Matt Smith,' McCoy explains in a deflated voice.
'And you do not sound very Scottish!' Ritchie adds.
'That's Peter Capaldi,' McCoy adds in the same sad tone. You get the feeling he's been in this situation more than once in the past.
'He's the seventh Doctor,' I tell Ritchie. 'You know, the one that killed off the series back in the eighties? The unpopular one?'
Okay, so when trying to negotiate the usage of a pedalo, it's probably not best to deeply insult the other party.
'Why, you little sod!' McCoy exclaims.
There's nothing for it. Actions must speak louder than words.
I grab hold of the pedalo at the front end and yank it towards me. This will earn me a painfully torn shoulder muscle for the next few weeks, but I'm too het up right now to realise the damage I've done. 'It's mine Doctor!' I wail, sounding like I'm auditioning for the part of The Master. 'It's mine and I'm going to use it!'
I start to drag the pedalo towards the water. As I reach it, McCoy tries to pull the boat back in the other direction. Ritchie has wisely decided to stay the hell out of it.
Luckily for me, the momentum of the boat is with me as it dips into the sea, and McCoy is unable to stop it drifting in my direction. With a hop, skip and a jump, I am sat in the seat and starting to pedal furiously. McCoy comes alongside, now nearly waist deep in water. 'Give it back! Give it back this instant!'
'Or what? You'll hit me with your sonic screwdriver?' I sneer and push him away from the side of the pedalo, which makes him lose his footing and fall over with a big splash.
With a roar of triumph I start to pedal with even more gusto, and the boat picks up speed.
I ignore the roars of displeasure coming from the pensionable Time Lord and fix my glare on the horizon.
I have done it!
I have claimed the pedalo!
It is mine!
Mwaa haa haa haa!
My transition from successful novelist to capering pantomime villain is complete.
Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) Page 7