Don’t Look Now

I stumble into the kitchen still asleep and she immediately engages me in a conversation about where we are going on holiday. I absent-mindedly place a bowl of cheerios on the floor for the cat and pour myself a generous portion of whiskas biscuits. Not bad as it goes, though next time I shan’t add any sugar. 

My mission today, it transpires, once this fog of grogginess and confusion has dissipated, is to book a holiday departing this Sunday. We never were the plan-well-ahead-of-time types. 

“So, where shall we go?”, I say, already knowing I want Italy. 

The cat shakes a paw and leaves the kitchen with a pointed gesture of disdain for his breakfast.  

“Anywhere, as long as it’s Spain”, she says with a karate chop for emphasis. 

Who says she is inflexible? 

“Spain? But we’re already going to Alcudia in August! How about Italy?”, I say, widening my eyes as though the idea had just occurred to me. 

It is a matter of distress to me that she has little interest in my favourite country in the world. Some time ago, we began discussing buying a holiday place abroad. A year later, we haven’t got beyond the Italy or Spain bit. High words and black looks have been exchanged since with no concrete signs of agreement. Really, what chance do the Israelis and Palestinians have? 

“So? We can go to the mainland”, she says, popping the balloon that had formed over my head in which I follow in the footsteps of Donald Sutherland in Don’t Look Now, but hopefully without being cornered in a blind alley by a murderous dwarf disguised as a little girl. 

“Spain it is then”, I sigh in resignation. “Barcelona alright for you?” 

“Yes, fine”, she says and displays no sign of triumph. She wins so often, she takes it for granted. “I’ll leave you with that then”, she says, like a boss delegating tasks before leaving to attend important meetings. 

As the front door closes behind her, I remember I have in my possession an important bargaining chip, nay, an unbeatable Royal Flush, and I move all-in. 

I dial the number for the holiday company. 

“Hello? Yes, I’m looking to spend a week in Venice, please.” 

Brave, I realise, but Sunday is my birthday, after all.