Sunday, 14 May 2017

Life is a lemon, and I want my money back...

It was an eventful day yesterday.  Having spent three hours by the pool wrapped in beach towels, waiting for the fog to lift, the decision was made to head off to the fleshpots of Monte Carlo, home to the rich and famous.

We dressed up accordingly, frightened that whatever authorities might be in charge of entry might not let us in to Monaco.  This meant wearing a a pair of shoes which haven't really broken my feet in yet, but I threw them on, not expecting that I would have to walk several miles in them. The hotel owner had told us that the whole of Monaco was only 1 km square, so in my mind, walking wasn't going to be an issue.  How wrong I was....

We decided to go by train, and having arrived at the very glamorous train station (with its own perfume according to Miss R) we headed off to the marina to look at the penile compensations moored up in the marina.  One of them looked like you'd need sandwiches and a passport to get from bow to stern, while another (the second largest) belonged to Sir Philip Green.  Nice to see that the current events haven't curtailed his leisure time activities at all...

We then headed off to the Cafe de Paris, where Bentley after Bentley drove round with various beautiful people on board.  These beautiful people were all driven by wizen old men with more money than sense, but it's always great to see how the half live.  Having spent almost £60 on three Proseccos, we headed off to the casino, where £40 disappeared almost as quickly as the Prosecco.  The shout for food then went up, and it was here that the problems started.  

By now, there were two formidable blisters forming on each foot, and every step was like walking on shattered glass. What we hadn't accounted for was Monaco being shut on a Sunday.  The one restaurant which we passed at 4.00 had been discounted as a dump. Funnily enough, two hours later, when we chanced upon it again, having circumnavigated the whole of Monaco several times, it looked like an oasis in the desert, and piling in, alcohol and lasagna were ordered and enjoyed.

As the time approached when our train was to leave, we headed back to the station and waited.  Our departure time came and went, and then the train was delayed by 10 minutes, 20 minutes, and then indefinitely as some poor soul had decided to end it all one station up.  After two hours, our train finally limped into the station, and we got on and headed back home.  

We grabbed a taxi at the station, and in my very inadequate Italian, I instructed the driver where to go.  As we reached the last couple of hairpin bends, three wild boars ran out in front of us and narrowly missed becoming the hotel's Dish of the Day.  For one moment, I thought our taxi driver might have gone back to look for casualties, such was the frequent use of the word 'mangare'.

After our very harrowing journey back, there was nothing left for it but  to drink copious amounts of Limoncello to calm us all down again.

It explains a lot, but at least it took my mind off my feet...



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