THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD !

Paul sat bolt upright neath the mosquito net. Something had been scratching right next to his ear.

And it wasn’t Andrew.

He thought he could hear rodent breathing as he hunched up on the bed drawing his knees towards him for safety. He kept dead still and silent. In between Andrew’s snores Paul could hear scurrying and clawing through the jungle black night. It was most disconcerting.

Like spending the night in bloody Hamelin! 

Although he knew he was a guest on the island and it was he who was intruding he wanted no more intruders in his ‘bungalow’. Especially at night. Unless invited. It was great to stay amongst nature but Paul drew the line at nature staying amongst them. 

It was the second time Paul had heard the colony colonising. This time he made an escape. He jumped from the bed and became entangled in the netting, flapping like a panicked herring he extricated himself from the mosquito net and threw himself though the open door onto the veranda. Fortunately windows and doors stayed open on the island because of the stultifying heat. There were after all no fans or air conditioning. And no locks as none were needed. 

There was much to recommend the place. 

But Paul had had enough. 

He wanted some hot water, an artificial breeze and a double room which contained only two mammals. Also he and Andrew were tragically looking forward to a seven eleven. There was only one shop on their island which served as a post office, cafe, meeting point, police station, hospital and generally everything else one could need. 

There was a Sunday Market to which the boys had rolled up to a couple of times, no mean feat being a six mile trundle through steamy rubber plantations, but it was rather disappointing. A few locals selling overpriced noodles and two grizzled ex-pats banging bongo drums. There was also a flutist called Pippa who piped up with a couple of notes when she could be bothered. Which wasn’t often. Paul wondered if she were stoned. 

Or if she’d even seen a flute. 

It was hideous.

He wondered this aloud.

‘Come on Paul. You’re better than that’ Andrew teased with a twinkle.

’No I’m not,’ Paul replied, noticing that Pippa was smoking ‘the pipe’ considerably more than she was playing it.

Thank God for the cheap marijuana it at least made it bearable. It did not, however, help with those ratty visitors blowing the wind right up Paul’s willows each night. Where was Pippa to pipe up when one needed her?

Paul climbed into the hammock and checked the time. He thought he’d wait it out until dawn but it was only just coming up to one o’clock. He’d never survive in the stupid construction for that long as he would never get comfortable enough. Hammocks to him were akin to deck chairs. They seemed like a good idea, but were impossible to get in and out off and were actually quite dangerous.  Nor were they particularly comfortable. Paul could only manage one of those swinging creations for a short time until he got cramp, or his feet went to sleep or he fell out. And he could never fully relax pondering whether the ad hoc furniture would take his full weight. He could hit the sand with and embarrassed thump or worse, hit the decking above which theirs was suspended, and break his neck! 

He’d always been dramatic! 

He switched on his mobile torch and confidently-ish strode back into the hut. Other than Andrew’s noisy respiration there was nothing to hear. 

And nothing to see. 

Paul took a large breath and a sleeping pill and courageously returned to the Jacobean torture instrument they called a bed. Lying even stiffer than the mattress Paul waited for the pills somnolent potency to kick in. Soon he’d be spark out in a suite at the Savoy. 

Hopefully. 

Or being chased through the streets of Hamelin by giant rats waiting in vain for Pippa to roll up.

Just his luck!