Have I told you about my little nest? My abode? The one I sacrificed my first born to rent? Eh! eh! And you thought Port Macquarie Holiday Inn was a tad on the dodgy?
First up, shan’t be inviting ‘y’all over for Spag Bol and Grappa as you simply wont fit. Heck even I don’t fit! You’d likely refuse my offer anyway in fear of premature heart attack from climbing the 179 steps to get here, ‘specially with the carton of wine you’d be obliged to bring. Heck even I’m exhausted by the time I get to the 9th.
If per chan
ce you persevered you’d be sleeping in the bathtub for there’s only one bed, a permanently folded out sofa protruding from under thewardrobe cupboards. And it’s mine. I’ve grown quite fond of my bed…and the bedspread. It closely resembles a green and orange checked picnic blanket and is complimented with matching lime sheets the texture of table cloths. Thread count? Let’s just say, exfoliation while you sleep.
Certainly can’t hang your cloths sport because you wouldn’t reach. Even Harlem Globe Trotters wouldn’t reach. That’s what the peach pincher’s for. To hook stuff down and back up.
I might let you admire my shower curtain though.The cartoon pink, green and blue dinosaurs frolicking on beaches, some scarfing watermelon, others supping tequila sunrises, the babies building wonky sand sand castles. Heck even I’ve grown fond of it. Specially when it sticks to my butt. Makes me temporarily forget the dank odor emanating from under the sink. And the conniving bidet.
And you’re definitely not borrowing my splendid lime green waffle weave hoodie bath robe. Yes Hoodie! The piece de resistance and on which I grade all hotels. No robe? Zero stars.
I give this place 4 though. You know why? ‘Cos its terrace has the most breathtaking view down over the village and across the ocean…infinity and beyond. Plus a free supply of lemons to keep the G&T topped up. Oh! That’s right you won’t fit. Shame. Pour another will you Jeeves? (He lives next door you understand)
I grasp enough to respond with ‘massiccia!’ (massive) as we drive up and around Italy’s main military and commercial harbor which hosts the arsenal of the Italian Navy, ‘mozzafiato! (breathtaking) while hugging the coastline affording spectacular views of warships, yachts and mussel beds and ‘e cosi bella!’ as we slip down into Porto Venere.
put the hot frothy milk and two sugars his crusty old friend, the one with the blood red eyes and shock of white hair, was drinking into the ‘baby-chino’ category? Or should I have kept my mouth shut?
