Dear Mr Postman,
We knew it would happen. Like every good novel, a holiday has a beginning, a middle, and an end.
Today marks the end.
I speak to other holiday makers Mr P, and they ask ‘are you ready?’ and they tell me they are ‘ready’ after ten days to go home.
Mr P, I am not bloody ready. I caught a sight of the paper yesterday, the UK looks cold, wet, and caught up in stories of terror and murder. Why would we want to come home? Right now I am in a little bubble where my days are filled with pools, parks, and playing, and the sun smiles on us with carefree abandon. I repeat Mr P, I am not ready.
The only thing I am ready to do is book my next jollie.
It does feel that we have been here a while. He who helped create them is well known to the entertainment team, he is close to becoming a regular on the stage. Twin Boy has earnt a cheeky poolside reputation, twin girl has made a some lovely new friends and BB, well, everyone knows she is turning ‘free’.
And she did Mr P, she turned three this morning. Her first words as she sat bolt upright in bed were “I am ‘free’ mummy, it’s my birthday.” And she proceeded to skip into the next room and tear excitedly at the small pile of presents we have bought away with us.
Three, Mr Postman. I can scarcely believe it. Like every mother raising a baby I can’t comprehend where the years have gone. How that tiny bundle has grown into an independent, demanding, beautiful little girl. I may even have to consider potty training her soon; this time next year she will be trying on school uniforms and preparing for the transition to big school.
It has been over a week since I held her to my breast, I can’t lie to you, I miss it. She still snuggles in beside me for morning cuddles and she likes to whack my chest in hopeful optimism. You are a fella Mr P, I don’t expect you fully understand, but there is no feeling quite like feeding your child.
So where am I this fine Portuguese morning?
I am laying by the pool, he who helped create them is beside me and all three children are in kids club. As BB is now three she can go be looked after by someone else and boy is she excited. She skipped in this morning, sandwiched by her big brother and sister, full of breakfast birthday cake and three year old glee.
I am in a wee bit of pain. The old legs Mr P, the ones who have refused point blank to recognise the sun, decided late yesterday to join the party. Rather than aiming to turn a luscious brown, or beautiful bronze, they chose radiant red.
I am in blotchy agony Mr P, bending causes tears to fill my eyes. Last night I swear the devil himself came into my room, poured gasoline on my thighs and set them aflame.
Today Mr P, factor 50 is my friend and comforter.
I will say farewell Mr Postie for the day, I have two hours of snoozing to do followed by crazy golf, bean bag bowles, swimming, diving and finally dancing.
Guess we may see you tomorrow if you are late on the round. Although with Royal Mail as it is I doubt you will read this for a fortnight at least.
Jane (and the gang)
To read more Postcards From Portugal check out these post’s:
Day One: Needles and Vino
Day Two: Raining on our parade
Day three: Thongs and arse cracks
Day four: Beating the kids
Day Five: How a skinful leads to Agadoo
Day Eight: Dying Young
Day Nine: The one where the kids go to a drag show
Follow me on Twitter: @janeblackmore
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