here we come againpublished: 2015-05-01
The members of the camping and caravaninning club all meet for games and bingo in the evenings. Most are from England and their average age is 65. Their faces are worn and torn, their bellies bloated, the hips wide and legs marked with varicose veins. Life has marked them.
And now they are here, in Spain.
One evening, I am startled in the dark by a man who wears a jet black wig and a coloured band around it. He smokes and drinks and I am sure he must suffer schizophrenia or something. But no, it is cowboys and indians night. As I peer into the game-hall, a country song comes up: Here we come again. They all know the words and couple by couple they get up to dance. They shuffle left and right, there is an odd cowboy hat, bandana and one compact lady made an extra effort. She has long braids over her big square glasses. Her toenails are a bright red in her Scholl slippers.
As the couples all shift left to right, gently bumping into each other, and singing happily, I envy these people.