The Lanzaroti Princess is the place where one should send one’s aged, lingering parents. It may take a grand off your inheritance but you’ll get it quicker. It’s the only hotel I can think of that must have its own morgue. After a fortnight of full English’s, shrivelling sun and heart exploding dinners they must surely lose a few in a season. Sagging is natural but why get fat? I don’t see the points. It sucks as a lifestyle choice. After a third evening of football and Spurs through to the Europe quarter finals we go home and Mothermouse stubs her toe. It hurts a lot and she says she needs a plaster in case she rubs it on a sheet. That is understandable and deserving of sympathy. Unfortunately I heard, “in case I rub it on a sheep” which I found richly humorous and responded inappropriately. We all have a child that sometimes needs soothing. Today the sky is squeezing out a few drops of rain so we’re going back to bed. I’m attracted to Lanzaroti for the parking. Acres of free, pristine half empty car parks; it all appeals to the town planner in me, which strangely will be the reason I will enjoy leaving. They may lord the artist who laid down the rules and colour scheme of white some fifty years ago but overlook the fact that fate decreed he be killed by a tourist in a car accident; an irony I have yet to fathom. Here desire is channelled to a preordained plan like a walk round Ikea. It’s Butlins meets The Prisoner under the Atlantic sun, where couple who’ve forgotten their number amble aimlessly the environs of their captive half-board late booking discount comfort.
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