Once it was enough for friends on holidays to send a saucy postcard of upblowing dresses on the esplanade or a picture of a fat man in bathing togs with the caption Sorry our correspondence is all behind.
Or See you can stomach this.
With, however, the keen electronic bent of our society, a new peril presents itself While the coloured-slide evening has subsided people are beginning to send tapes of their holiday experiences.
They cannot even wait decently until they’re home.
They thought it would be a novel idea and would bring us a first-hand account of experiences we were panting to hear, of on-the-spot descriptions of the Mount Gambier caravan park; of the toilet facilities at Portland; at the fact that Port Fairy didn’t have one fairy at the bottom of the garden (Joke, Joke). to say nothing of the load of bool from Warrnambool.
My wife said that we must play the tape because everyone would be disappointed if we didn’t. The thing about having a long touring holiday is to promulgate it to the stay-at-homes, the non-venturers, those who find a simple and inexplicable delight in an armchair and telly Tests.
These roving Philistines must badger and besiege us with their trivia even though we thought, thank heaven, they at least had gone over the border and their offspring were busily terrifying other hamlets and unsuspecting wilderness areas, with their Juggernaut of juvenilia and aromatic sleeping bags.
Then came the dreaded arrival of the tape.
“We’ll sit down and enjoy it,” my wife said “Some people like to travel and is thoughtful of them to remember those anchored to the kitchen sink and to the sin pit of the SCG.
At that she turned on the tape recorder.
The melting tones of Irma came through, amid background shrieking and people upsetting milk bottles:
Hullo loves, we wish you were here. We even wish HE was here because there’s a high cliff nearby. Well we had a lovely journey and now we’re staying at the inlet. What’s the inlet called, Fred?
Anyway it’s an inlet or an outlet or something and the children are very friendly with the neighbours. FRED, get Helen, her pants are off again. Sorry loves, just a little family drama.
Well, the sun is shining and we’ve all got sunburn. No, you can’t have money and what have you got on your face, you wretched child?
Well loves, we arrived about 8 o’clock and had to hunt up the caretaker. Why are caretakers always somewhere else? Fred kicked his door down and that brought him out. Oh, the facilities are nice and there are six toilets and air showers and a vanity bar and washbasin and we had fish fingers last night. Fred, get those kids away from the kiosk. Well, it’s time for lunch. So have a cuppa and I’ll be back with more news.
There was a moment’s silence on the recorder and I thankfully gulped at my cup. I hadn’t heard such riveting descriptions since The Con quest of Everest.
As I said to my wife, six toilets must be the biggest sit-in on the coast; but she seemed interested enough and bade me be silent.
The hated tape spun again.
Hullo, loves, here we are back again. We’ve all been out on the lunch up the inlet. What’s it called, Fred? But they told us over the public address system. Anyway we saw the kiosk and the kids had pasties and ice-cream and Fred met someone who knows you and even knows HIM and we had them over to our caravan and…
As Irma droned on I dreamt of the holiday tape I would make…
I am sitting in a little esplanade outside a cafe and the blue Mediterranean splashes gently against the seawall and Marina or is it Penelope or Helen of Troy smiles at me across the snow-white table and I sip my wine and look into her wine-dark eyes and she says her Daddy is a Greek shipping magnate and to come to the yacht tonight when the Mediterranean moon throws a path of silver over the sea and she will wear something she can slip into and out of while the champagne glasses glisten and tinkle and she whispers “Oh, Ulysses…”
And…
My wife said: “You’re not paying attention. You didn’t hear a bit of the last of Irma and Fred’s tape. I’ll just have to play it again.”
Now I learn to my numb dismay Fred and Irma are thinking of getting a video camera so they can play videotapes for us on their recorder.
Tapeworms? They’re not a medical condition… they’re wriggling all over the tourist environment, with names like Irma and Fred.
Recording and recording.
Max Fatchen