As I sit and write this post, I am sat beside a lamp all wrapped up in a blanket with my glasses on and listening to Birdy (as you can see in the pic above, I love her). I have a big mug of tea beside me and I've just finished watching a Harry Potter film (Half-Blood Prince). Outside the weather is damp and dark and the only thing worth doing with weather like this is hiding from it. But writing this just got me thinking of how different my day has been today, compared with the day captured above. It was hot and sunny. Just the occasional cloud. Probably in the late twenties, maybe approaching thirty degrees. We were exploring the island. I found and drunk pineapple Fanta. I paddled on the beach and applied sun cream every half an hour or so. Believe it or not, I did actually get a bit of colour. Not much by the standards of a non-pale person. Whenever I get back off holiday, someone will always say to me, "you haven't got much colour" or they will show me their amazing tan and then look at my skin and say nothing. The stupid thing is that these people are judging me by their colour. No, in comparison to you I don't have much colour but in comparison to how I was before I left!
(my outfit deets)
Anyway, as mentioned in my last post, I thought I'd share another story of weird things that happened to me while I was away. This story is titled, Mr Stare on the Stairs.
Mr Stare on the Stairs
You know how when you're on holiday, you end up noticing certain people. There isn't much of a reason as to why these people stand out to you but nevertheless, everywhere you go you seem to see them. Well there was a particular man on holiday that I saw everywhere. The difference with this man was that I had a great reason for noticing him. He liked to stare. Everywhere I went, there he was staring. Just staring at everything and everyone. And then, when he saw me, he would stare until I was no longer in sight. Quite appropriately, and rather quickly, I christened this old man as 'Mr Stare' and whenever I spotted him I would whisper to my family, "Misstterrr Stare!" It became a bit of an in joke between us.
Throughout the two weeks this happened a lot. Every time he stared I was tempted to go and confront him but, you can't just go shout at some old man. Especially one who doesn't speak English. And anyway, if I shouted at every person that stared at me on holiday, I'd spend a large portion of my day shouting. Still, it annoyed me but I just put up with it. Then, on the second to last night of my holiday, something very bizarre happened. (When you finish reading this story, you may wonder why the hell I'm sharing it with you. It's weird and maybe a bit embarrassing but if I'm honest, I just find it funny. Funny that I seem to attract these bizarre situations. So anyway...) As it was approaching midnight, we (my family and I) decided to head back to our room's for bed. Drinks had been drunk and cards had been played. My parents and my brother decided to take the lift but, as I always did, I took the stairs. They were a little dark and no one seemed to be around but I didn't have too many to go up so I took my time. When I got to the top I saw Mr Stare standing there. This time I decided that I would stare back. Give him a taste of his own awkward medicine. So there I was, climbing the stairs and holding his stare. When I walked past, he approached me and I thought he was going to speak so I stopped. He didn't speak but, instead he came closer and closer. All this time I was wondering what the hell he was doing. Eventually he got so close to my face that I thought he was going to kiss me. Yes, a seventy year old man. As a reflex (thank god for my reflexes!) I took a step back, horrified, disgusted and a little confused. To this, he gave me the biggest and strangest smile. I continued up the stairs and luckily, he seemed to head down in the opposite direction to me.
I have no idea what he was thinking or doing. Maybe he was trying to freak me out, in which case it worked. I don't know if he was drunk or maybe senile but I most certainly hope he wasn't going to kiss me. Imagine that. A twenty-one year old and the nearest thing to a holiday romance was an old Spanish man named Mr Stare. God.
For some strange reason, and a day or two after this all happened, I imagined myself pushing him away and him falling down the stairs. I don't mean that in a 'oh btw I'm a murderer' kind of way but more that I usually react to things quite strangely and impulsively. I rarely do the thing that is socially expected. I just act on instinct. When I spoke to my friend about it on the phone, he asked why I didn't just move and walk away. The thing is, I think I just froze. Lucky for me, I chose to leave. If I hadn't, this story may have ended up with a very different title and possibly may have been written from inside the walls of a Spanish prison.
(I did say it was a strange story)
Happy September 1st!
