This is a game Laing I played, for reasons I will not explain in detail, but suffice to say, it was part of the glue that kept us, as a family together.
After such major utterances we would marvel where the time had gone and remember things we had achieved, places we had visited, people we had met. We could never forget our first trip to the US was California, a Tauck coach tour from San Francisco to Los Angeles. A woman in the party could not understand why we hadn’t been to Minneapolis as our first port of call. I shall leave that thought echoing in the air. It was also one of the few times I literally kicked Laing under the table, when this same person said to us:
“You may not have had this before. This is called cider.” Before I could break my silence (it was more like apple juice) Laing said, “Where Tim comes from in the UK they make cider, but it is very alcoholic.” I kicked him swiftly as I knew he wanted to move the put down further, since the dear lady was blissfully ignorant of her faux pas.
There was the dreadful stockbroker belt family we came across in Garmisch-Partenkirchen. They didn’t like us at all. Also on that same stay the hotelier apologised that we had been given a double bed (it was 1983, a more innocent time), and we assured him we were not distressed by it (not even we could really say back in 1983 “Whoopee , it’s perfect for making whoopee!”). He was at great pains to tell us it was a French bed. So we did “French” things in it, though I’m not so sure that he meant that to happen. I leave it to your vulgar imagination, dear reader to decide what I meant in all innocence.
On the same holiday we stayed at Bad Reichenhall, where it was soon established we were Brits, and one elderly German, bless him, would say phrases he knew, like “Gott safe ze Qveen” and “Rule Britahnea”. We saw a neighbour on his balcony with a tattoo on his arm, that looked suspiciously like a war time tattoo. His particular number did not come up. We also went to Dachau, at my insistence, as well as the palaces of dear old ‘loopy’ Ludwig. Those diametrically opposed experiences were typical of us. We wanted to take in the good and the bad.
Leading on from that, I am reminded of the most horrible place I have ever been and one which I almost could not see through to the end, but see it through I did, Tuol Sleng in Phnom Penh. As we left, Laing said to the person who had showed us around something like “Thank you. I can’t say I enjoyed it, but I am sure you understand what I am trying to say.” It was one of those few moments he was truly lost for words. We rarely spoke about it together. It was also, for photography obsessed nuts like us, one of the few places we could not and did not want to photograph. My visual memories are still scarred by it. I need no photos.
I have also realised that wanting to get the tattoo I wanted on holiday may not be such a good idea since swimming is not advised (who wants to go to the Far East and stay out of the water?) for a few days, plus seepage of the wound. OK, I need to rethink this tattoo business!
So anyway. It’s not that long before I hit 59, and a year after that I shall be 60. I wanted to go to Berlin for my 60th birthday, again for personal reasons, and a few of you know them. I am still going. Anybody else out there interested in probable brass monkey weather in one of the most exciting cities of the last 100 years or so? I shall be staying at my favourite hotel there, the Hyatt. You can always stay in a 1 star hostel if you want!
I’ve now prattled on longer than I meant to. As ever, looking back reminds of things we had achieved, places we had visited, people we had met.
Today I am fifty eight and eleven twelfths.
Cheers!
