# Canaries Christmas



## Ravel

Strange, in the third week of December, to be sat round a pool in the  blazing heat, concerned about burning rather than work and Christmas  presents. Work can manage without me (I have to accept). My blackberry  is switched off and safely locked in the room safe. And the presents  will take care of themselves in next week’s traditional frenzied  last-minute shopping spree. For now, my shoulders are a little sore and  it is talking rather too long to attract the waiter’s attention so that I  can order a long refreshing cold beer.


 Here he is finally. “A large one signor?” he inquires in broken  English. It’s the first big decision of the day. “Oh, go on then,  gratias” I protest in fragmented spanglaise “why not?”. My wife is gently  snoring after the exertions a lazy  swim and her puzzle book.


 It really is delightful here, sat around the tranquil perfectly warm  blue pool. The hotel is wonderfully posh hotel and the service is  excellent. The other residents are mainly older, and therefore  reasonably quiet and well-behaved. Although some of them really should  keep themselves covered up more. There are too many beer bellies and fat  bottoms wobbling around in wrinkly skin for my liking, especially  before lunch. But apart from that, the only mild anxiety is whether we  will find a pair of sunbeds in the sun after 11am. So far, so good.


 Hard to believe next week is Christmas. The hotel has tried its best.  An illuminated Santa is perched precariously on the top of the hotel  roof with a couple of token reindeer. We watched amusingly as two young  Spanish staff wrestled him into place. He seemed reluctant, and it took  several attempts to persuade him into position. I think he was okay with  the height but he was less keen on the heat. He is going to be up there  for a week or so and there really won’t be much snow.


 Other near life-sized Santas are sprinkled playfully around the  grounds. One is lounging on a bench; one climbing over a balcony,  another emerging from a large ceramic urn like an erstwhile flower pot  man. Each one is wilting and rather lifeless, like half-inflated dolls.  They haven’t got the enthusiasm and it really is rather too warm for  them here.


 There are a few other nods to the season – a tree in the bar, and  elaborate nativity scene outside the restaurant, lights draped down from  the magnificent stain glassed dome decorating the central atrium. But  it all feels rather perfunctory; a gesture and a concession to a  festival from a different climate.
 I remember as a kid being told that people in Australia ate their  turkey on the beach and wondered how they kept the sprouts warm. I have  never celebrated Christmas Day south of Basingstoke, and we will be back  in the frozen north next week for our cranberry sauce.


 The northern climes demand Christmas with all its trimmings as a  relief from the relentless cold and darkness of winter. Here it is an  aside; an optional and rather amusing extra, an acquisition for the  guests from the north. But the half-inflated Santas hanging around the  sunbathed garden mock the gravity and seriousness of our tradition. We  should be offended really. We put more energy and stress into Christmas  than anything.  These warmer countries have it easy.


 And yes they do. They can relax and enjoy themselves without all of  that effort. They should put the garden Santas out of their misery and  send them home to their natural habitat where they can work hard  distributing gifts to well-behaved children. They are like fish out of  water.There are no chimneys in any of the buildings here anyway. Rest  and relaxation are best enjoyed without the distraction of having to buy  presents that people don’t want and organise endless food and drink  which only makes us feel bloated and dozy.  Christmas in colder  countries has become a Trojan horse for retail sales and just another  set of tasks and tensions.


 Here time and tensions have ceased, and the only task I have is  turning another page of my novel and applying a little more sun cream.  Then my cold beer will arrive and I will have to drink that I suppose.  All in my own time.


 This morning, for the third course of my breakfast; sat on the  balcony in the soft heat of the morning sun, I enjoyed my nod to the  festive season.  This is how. I forced myself to eat  a thin slice of black forest gateau washed down by a red berry smoothie  laced with a dash of champagne. Now that’s what I call Christmas.


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## nerot

HTML:
	

Here time and tensions have ceased, and the only task I have is turning another page of my novel and applying a little more sun cream. Then my cold beer will arrive and I will have to drink that I suppose. All in my own time.


This morning, for the third course of my breakfast; sat on the balcony in the soft heat of the morning sun, I enjoyed my nod to the festive season. This is how. I forced myself to eat a thin slice of black forest gateau washed down by a red berry smoothie laced with a dash of champagne. Now that’s what I call Christmas.


Sounds fantastic! I am going to store away this image for some peaceful daydreaming while I stand in line at WalMart.


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## Ravel

I hope it worked  if so I will patent it . . .


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