THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD !

The small French girl was practically torturing a white cat as it lay attempting to sleep through the torpid afternoon. Nobody took any notice as it was far too hot. It seemed that there was not enough air for everyone to breathe. One dare not make too much movement so as not to use up the limited supply. Apart from the little French girl who had joie de vivre to die for. 

In other words she needed killing. 

But nobody stirred. 

Every time one looked up from one’s banana shake there she’d be, squashing the poor resort cat into a hammock. Or trying to push it head long into a saucepan or other. Often there was a feline shriek and any diners present would ignore the fact this Gallic kid was swinging the pussy from its ankles! If they have ankles. Then forcing it to lay on a table and have a pretend operation.

She  was the sort of child who would take home the class hamster for the holidays and it would never be seen again!

Weirdly the cat didn’t scarper but stayed around for more, and more -the cat fight could go on for hours. 

Paul and Andrew were eagerly anticipating le scratch – but it never came. 

Perhaps the cat was so scared. There had been one night when the noise which emitted from the animal during some new contortion made all think le chat had done just that! But no – it seemed puss didn’t mind the odd back flip. How either of them found the energy through the syrup of the afternoon surprised and appalled. 

Surely they were using up more than their fair share of oxygen.  

Ok little girl, Let’s shut the fuck up with the cat bloody circus now s’il vous sodding plait, Paul wanted to say, but had not the energy. Nor the breath. Why the mamma and papa said nothing amazed Paul. But then the cat had the same lassez faire attitude as them so maybe it was Paul who was uptight. After all the cat still had four legs and a tail, Paul made sure of that each morning. It always surprised him when he saw the animal replete with limbs and still breathing at breakfast.

Paul hadn’t fallen into the Rhythm of island life quite yet. The constant moving home and the indoor wildlife hadn’t helped but there was something off in him too. A sense of holding off. Not wanting to become too immersed. He’d no desire to chat to anyone or make acquaintances. 

Especially with the long stayers. 

A clique of leatherette Europeans who only ordained to look in your direction after at least a fortnight. 

One slip and one could be stuck with a set of regrettable holiday friends on the remotest beach without the remotest thing to say to each other. Paul thought it best to stay silent. He knew Andrew wouldn’t forgive him if Colin and Jeanette from Wigan were waving at them over a green curry one night. 

It would be entirely his fault. 

He knew it. He always had a propensity to people please, or so his therapist had wondered. 

Interesting that – he never told Paul anything just wondered. Paul wondered why he was paying him so much to wonder on his behalf when the reason he went to him at the beginning had been because he was wondering himself. 

Anyway it was far too hot to figure that one out! 

Paul just knew Colin and Jeanette, Pam and Frank,  Klaus and Brigitta would all be his fault. So he stared hard at his muesli as the sun set lazily with only a hint of scarlet. It was as if she too couldn’t be bothered. It was one of those days.

The woman with the tangerine frizz for hair and the gigantic harem pants who had kindly taken some photos of Paul and Andrew the previous day was draped in a hammock, her arm loosely brushing the fine warm sand beneath. Paul had learnt earlier her name was Jana. She was lovely. Ordinarily Paul would have bonded and although he did he felt himself holding back. The place was too small for big gestures of affection. Party friends are only fun until the party’s  over. And there was no taxi rank on Koh ?. No where to which one could escape when the lights came on. Which they did. Incandescently. Like clock work. So being taciturn and mysterious was the way to play it on such a tiny piece of land surrounded by an immense expanse of ocean. Even if it was immensely difficult.

He waved towards her and she gestured back that maybe it was a good time to exchange pictures. No no no Paul assured her he was out of battery. He had no idea if that were true of his phone but it was true of him. There was no way he wanted to engage in light badinage with Tatiana whilst uploading some dodgy pics of himself and Andrew he would never look at. It was still too darn hot.

There was a scream. Most people looked up. The girl was holding the cat like a wheelbarrow and making  her walk on her two front paws. Quite a feat. Or a couple of them to be exact. Paul was feeling delirious. Making bad jokes and paying too much attention to his muesli. He knew he should head back to whichever cabin they were staying in at present and cool off under a fan. Except they didn’t have one. 

He needed to recline and avoid.

Someone else he was attempting to ignore was Frank, an affable German with a penchant for anecdotes – telling them! He’d stayed on the island about three hundred and ninety seven times so he had all the tips. One of them was stopping Andrew boil the kettle using the communal socket as he said it took too much power and so wasn’t fair. Andrew was steaming – no hot water meant no coffee. 

Bastard!

He also appeared on their tiny terrace one afternoon, ample arms making themselves too comfortable on the creaking balustrade, laden with stories and requesting a puff on their herbal cigarette. A dreadful combination. Eight tales later he left Paul and Andrew in a stupor – knocked out by his filial tedium. It packed more of a punch than the joint.

‘He’s on the scale’ Andrew observed.

‘Quite! I just hope he can find some balance before the next bloody story. Make it interesting’ said Paul.

A little later that afternoon, Frank popped up again, at a different location on another beach, claiming he wasn’t stalking them whilst laughing too much. He clearly hadn’t found his equilibrium quite yet, for he interrupted their meal, and embarked on another arid anecdote about the best chicken noodle soup on the island. By the time he’d finished neither of them ever wanted to see another bowl of chicken noodle soup in their lives. And theirs was cold!

There was another woman at the ‘bungalows’  who oversmiled. Pleasant enough but never ceased grinning. Paul wondered if she’d inserted something but didn’t want to be presumptuous. Besides he did wipe the smile off her face just once when he snatched the only pen from under her nose at breakfast, despite her being first in line. Afterwards he didn’t know why he’d done it. It was early but he was never normally rude. He blamed his therapist for wondering about his constant ‘people pleasing’. He was trying to rectify this but sometimes buoyant breakfasteers got in the way. Paul was never at his best in the morning. He was still working out who to please. Why he couldn’t do that when someone like Frank approached he had no idea. 

One to wonder about later on.  

There was a lot of avoidance to do on the island. Paul was beginning to realise he wasn’t that keen on them. Islands. This one was starting to feel like Alcatraz. And just when he thought he might get a moment’s peace to scribble a tad the ukulele began. ‘Hotel California!’. Andrew was on a dark desert highway with a warm wind in his hair. Unfortunately he just couldn’t seem to get off it. 

There was a loud screech from the restaurant interrupting Andrew’s epic journey. Paul looked up. The little French girl was now wearing the cat as a hat. No-one batted an eyelid. Not the cheerful woman. Not Tatiana with the frizzy hair. Not Frank. Not even the cat.

It seemed Paul wasn’t the only one doing avoidance. 

Andrew continued down his dark desert highway and as he got more lost Paul also lost all concentration.

It was beginning to feel like a very small island.

Just as he lay down his iPad and was making ready for a silent swim he noticed Frank was almost at their terrace once again. 

‘Hey guys- can I try a little more of your smoke?- I’ve ran out’

‘Of course’ said Paul, people pleasing and readying himself for more dreary discourse.

As Frank began a story about an old Thai woman who had adopted him as a grandson Paul politely feigned interest.

Andrew, however, continued on with the ukulele. 

That highway was getting even longer!

Frank droned on through the eighteenth chorus.

Paul feared that he could always check out but he could never leave.

Screech!!!