Back for a holiday

A particular patriotic pride presided the passage to the pissoir. Upright men of all ages stood tall in an orderly British queue. We filed in, awaited our turn, and – as our forefathers had done in the Boer – carried out God’s duty, before we filed back to refill and rearm ourselves for another round.

Ahead of me, two young gents shuffled along, bravely directing their attention away from nature’s calling, aided by those smartphone devices. Their lit-up faces the very picture of sangfroid, or was it ennui? A urinal became free, and the first chap marched forth. The second pleaded to join in, as he was ‘bursting’. I am no socialist, but when I see a Brit extend favour to his fellow countryman – as any good Anglican would – I well up. ‘God Save the King!’ remarked I in admiration, slapping the pair of them, rugger style.

Another compatriot had become peckish during his journey from watering hole to water closet. ‘I’ll have my cake and eat it’, the blonde mopped patron proclaimed, before reaching in to sample the goods. He crunched and grinned, beaming at his captive audience, foaming between his teeth.

At last, my time had come. I proceeded, planted my two feet, and produced one proud prick. Gushing with relief and bonhomie, I parleyed with my good neighbour. ‘God bless you sir,’ greeted I. A steely glance was my reply. Touché, nodded I in return. We are but men of few words. My salutation parried and my business finished, I caught myself in the zip.

‘God’s sake,’ muttered my son. ‘Again, Papa?’ he had said after I relayed my story to him. ‘You know,’ he continued, ‘I think it’s time you moved back. You haven’t been the same ever since you moved to Malaga.’