After the shock of the spectacular (in the worst possible way) AS results, we went away for a few days to reflect. The Troodos Mountains are great for just one thing, escaping the Nicosia heat and having nothing to do but talk. And then we went to stay in Pissouri. I was pleasantly surprised because I had not stayed at the Columbia Beach for twenty years. It has been very tastefully done up and the staff were all amazingly polite and helpful. My first such experience in a hotel in Cyprus. But then someone told me it is a German company!
Naturally all good things must come to an end. We got back to Nicosia to find my bedroom had been invaded by a swarm of hornets, the garden under a ton of water and the grass riddled with fungus and half dead. I thought it must have rained but no, it was just the watering system that went haywire in our absence. Why does nothing ever just work properly? After seven weeks of unrelenting sun and domestic stress, time to head home to the big city (London not Nicosia) and some real rain…
I had a pleasant flight from Larnaca. The new airport is pretty civilised, if not that exciting. When we took my son’s friend there a couple of weeks ago and his flight was delayed for a couple of hours, he moaned for a good hour about how much he hates airports and how boring they are. I always find airports can be fascinating, like a mini soap opera. Although I had to admit, watching overweight, scantily dressed, burnt holidaymakers, abusing their children and ordering beer and diet cokes has limited entertainment value.
My daughter, on the other hand, came back to Cyprus with wonderful tales of being propositioned by good-looking men and bought dinner at Heathrow airport. Why does this sort of thing never happen to me? Is it something to do with age or beauty or the airport itself? But I must spend at least as much time at Heathrow as I do in Larnaca. So, I have t admit, it probably has less to do with the airport location than the other factors. Oh dear, those days are gone.
Still, I can console myself with the fact that I had a fairly stress-free journey to London in the enthralling company of my seventeen-year-old son. He was regaling me with tales of his laddish mates and their mothers’ underwear. And yet more anecdotes from the holiday in Napa involving boys, tequila shots and women’s breasts. He was a mine of fascinating information. If only he could have dispensed as much wisdom about the Bolsheviks and Stalin in his History exam, the results might have been a bit more impressive!
