Crikey. Now there’s a word I don’t tend to use often, if ever, come to think of it. Crikey. I’m saying it aloud to myself right now and feel a bit of a twat if I’m honest. I just can’t pull it off. Crikey. Usually, I’m more of a ‘fuck me furiously!’ type of person. Hee! Anyway, the reason for my contrived, somewhat irritating surprise-infused introduction to this rant is due to the fact that, well… I’m surprised! Still!
I moved to Puerto de Pollensa three weeks ago and I still pinch myself as I ramble through the narrow streets of the beautiful port town. Set in the North of the Island, (a world away from Magaluf that essentially acts as a tacky, hot Blackpool for overly horny, overly tattooed people on a tight budget), Pollensa really is stunning. There are two sides to it: the port and the old town. It’s a small, traditional place that is largely untouched by Brits Abroad.
The decision to become a rep was a good one, methinks. The unrelenting trauma of the last four years (oooh, get me, don’t I go on?) meant that a huge change was needed. A break to attain some much needed perspective and get a focus on the future. In April, I was in Bolton for an extensive training course that never seemed to end and then once it did, we were given our destinations and packed off the next day. When I was first told that I was being sent to North Majorca, I didn’t feel anything. Other people were screaming at the top of their voices that, ‘I’m going to Kos! I can’t believe it!’ Others seemed less impressed that they were off Turkey but I didn’t know what to feel. I was just pleased to be going somewhere.
We arrived on Friday, 25th April and were put in a hotel room overnight in Alcudia. Such rankness. Seriously, it was an utter shithole. Standing at the balcony on the 8th floor, I suddenly realised why some people chuck themselves off. It really did seem preferable to going back into the room that had enough second hand hair in the bath to weave your own syrup.
Fortunately we checked out at 9am the next day. Within forty minutes, I was walking through the front door of my new apartment. I was speechless. I’m sharing with another lad – let’s call him Darren. Why? Well, because that’s his name – and we have two living rooms, a bathroom each and a kitchen that even has a dishwasher. If you come out of the apartment and look right you can see the beach, which is less than two minutes away. If you look left, you can see Spanish Square, a lovely little square (shockingly, given its name) that is lined with cafes, bars and restaurants. I walk around in the sunshine and everything seems right with the world. There’s just an optimism all of a sudden and I feel as though a spark has come back. Admittedly, that flickers momentarily when I forget to look the right way when crossing the road and some conyo almost knocks me over, but hey ho: no harm, no foul. I just keep striding through the charismatic, winding streets with a smile on my kisser and the word crikey inexplicably running through my head on a loop.