Holidays can be fun, can't they?

We were waiting for a train in Llanberis. It was going to take us to the top of Snowdon, the highest mountain in Wales. My wife Rosemary and I sat on one of the station's wooden back-to-back benches with our two small children, Rebecca and older brother Richard. They were curious about everything and asked many, many questions. It was a bit wearing at times, but we encouraged it because we liked to see them learn.
Rebecca had gone with her mother to find the lavatories, while Richard stood on the bench beside me. He was looking around the cafe outside table area, asking questions and making comments as usual.
"Daddy!"
"Yes, Richard?"
"That lady is as fat as Aunty Sue!"
Sue, daughter of my Uncle Randal, was indeed on the large side, and she had a huge, warm, huggable character to match. She needed to be big. Small would not have housed her. Her character shone with warmth and love for all wherever she went.
"Is she?" I said, idly enjoying my choc ice.
"Yes. Look at her. She's ever so fat! Does she eat a lot?"
He pointed over my shoulder.
"People come in all shapes and sizes", I commented, taking another bite of choc ice.
"Yes I know. Aunty Millie is thin, and Nain (Welsh for grandmother) says she eats like a sparrow. That's not much, is it?"
"No Richard."
"But this lady is ever so fat! She must eat lots and lots? Look at her!"
To keep him happy I turned around.
To my horror the woman in question was seated immediately behind me; we were almost back to back! Her fingers drummed menacingly on the bench.
"Shall we look in the shop?" I blurted, grabbing his wrist and rising to go ... rapidly.
We met the Rebecca and Rosemary by the shop.
"We saw a lady with a fat tummy, Dad", said Rebecca. "Mummy said that she was pregnant with a baby in her tummy."
"That's interesting", I said.
"Yes. How do you know if someone has a baby in her tummy or is very fat?"
"Ask Mummy", I blurted. "Ladies know more about babies than Daddies".
I didn't dare look at Rosemary.
Moving on, next day we again sat in the afternoon sun, this time by the pool and fountain in the beautiful Italianate village of Portmeirion. Pastel washed ornate buildings decorated the village with pinks, blues, oranges and white, giving us a feeling of being on the shores of a sun warmed Mediterranean.
Our infant children Rebecca and Richard were fascinated by the pool and fountain gurgling and sparkling behind us. Behind us we could hear the gurgle and splash of the fountain as we started to eat our picnic.
I like people-watching. Where are these people from? Where are they going? What do they do for a living? How do their lives compare with mine? My mind wandered as we relaxed in the sun. We were on holiday.
Gradually I became aware of people giggling and laughing. They were all looking past us at the pool. We turned round to see what all the fun was about, and were horrified to see Richard, soaking wet and paddling about in the middle of the pool. It came up to his waist and he was not at all concerned about scene he was creating, but he did seem worried about something.
"Richard", I called. "Come back! Look, Mummy's got some nice cake for you."
He looked at me, muttered something which I couldn't understand because of the laughter all around, and carried on. He was seemed to be looking for something in the water.
"Oh no!", I thought, "He's lost a toy and I'm going to have to go in there and get it, and him, out. Back then I used to find this kind of situation acutely embarrassing. Age has cured me of this, thank goodness, but back then I could have died of shame. But on that afternoon I had no choice.
My wife clutched our daughter Rebecca tightly while a puce faced Patrick waded into the sparkling pool, and people around laughed and cheered me on.
"Richard", I hissed, "What ARE you doing? You mustn't play in this water. It's not a paddling pool."
He looked up at me, clearly distressed.
"I can't find where it gets out, Daddy! Will we die?"
I bundled him under my arm and, accompanied by rapturous applause, hurried out of the limelight.
"No we won't", I said. "Why do you think we'll die?
"There isn't a plug-hole, like in the bath."
"I'm sure there's one in there somewhere", I said.
"I couldn't find it and the fountain hasn't got a tap on so you can't turn it off and it'll keep squirting water and fill up the whole world and what about us?!"
There followed a highly technical discussion in toddler talk about plumbing and fountains and plug-holes, but I don't think he was convinced. Re-assured? Maybe. Comforted? A little, but not convinced. This was going to take time.
We had wonderful holidays with our children. More to come in a future post.

Sunday night on the Cardiac Ward (almost word for word)

Peace reigns in the ward, men dozing, staring into space, lost in thought. The only sound is from subdued activity around the nurses' station nearby. Two men, in adjacent beds at the end of the ward, start a slow, ponderous conversation. It is quite loud as they are both fairly deaf.

BILL: How's your bowels?
BOB: Regular enough. Every two hours.
BILL: Mine works. Always have. D'you get much sleep in here?
BOB: Nope.
BILL: Oh. Why's that then? Is it the lights?
BOB: No. Every two hours.
BILL: Ah.
BOB: And me bladder.
BILL: Your bladder?
BOB: Yes. Every two hours. Round the bloody clock.
BILL: Well, at least they're symphonised.
BOB: No they bloody ain't. Every hour. First one, then t'other. Up and down all sodding night.
BILL: Hells bells! Were you like that when you was working?
BOB: It's why I had to stop working down the mines. The doctor wrote a letter and I had to come up and go on the warehousing. At least the kazi was closer. I had to pack up in the end. Management got complaints.
BILL: Where was that then? Where did you used to work?
BOB: Byllconnyavon.
BILL: Billy bobby ... Where's that near then?
BOB: You know, little place, over by Connybyllaron.
BILL: Don't know it. Where's the nearest big town?
BOB: Don't know. Never had time to go there.
BILL: Must have been interesting down the mines.
BOB: Not really. Just coal, a lot of coal. And shovelling.
BILL: Ah. Yes. Look after us well in here, don't they?
BOB: Yes. Yes. Angels, them nurses. Angels. Work like hell. Going like little demons all day.