Woke up to the sound of rain on the balcony, and the sad resignation to the truth that my only Easter tan would come from Garnier. Shopping centre it was, then.
So we set off: Ginger, Turk and myself. Turkish friend was particularly well fortified against the weather in her 23 layers.
On the other hand, I looked every bit the tragic tourist in white Levi’s and flip-flops. Nothing says ‘imminent suicide’ like the sound of squelching flip-flops amidst palm trees and swimming pools.
The afternoon consisted of ironic bikini shopping, followed by fajita-making. Wine time was delayed until 3pm, when we embraced the challenge of three remaining bottles in the apartment…along with Dear John, a film which celebrates all vacuous romantic film cliches. This also made it time for a little game I like to call…
How much can you slate Amanda Segfried?
The rudiments of this game are simple. Segfried is that bug-eyed beauty who pretty much climbs atop a pedestal to play every one of her movie roles, ranging from adorable, romantic blonde in Letters to Juliet to adorable, romantic blonde-who-sings in Mamma Mia. She also- rather endearingly, I think – has a tattoo of the word ‘minge’ on her foot, which ‘means a lot to her’. Dear John, however, offered a whole new range of scope, including her ‘midget with adult guardian’ appearance with on-screen boyfriend Channing Tatum (alright, she’s an inch taller than me, but it was still funny), to her character’s hilarious one-liners: ‘what’s one year apart after two weeks together?’.
Much too much alcohol later, we headed out around 2am (which might sound hardcore, but it’s pretty much Spanish Happy Hour). Arriving at the club, we realised two things. Firstly, it was emptier than the previous night. Secondly, we were- almost if not actually- the only girls in there.
We soon struck up a friendship with a group of Norwegians including, as it transpired, a Scandanavian dance duo. This was a fortuitous coincidence, as our Turkish pal is a trained dancer, a revelation that was soon met with free drinks and a dance show for the rest of us. But there is always a catch: before I knew it, I was importuned to dance myself, by a very small, very drunk member of the dance duo, clad in pink cashmere. Unable to decline, I was soon made the Baby to his sleazy Patrick Swayze in an awful, parodic version of Dirty Dancing, all the while wondering whether I would ever regain control of my own limbs. Meanwhile, the other half of the dance duo, a peacocking (look it up) fellow in a pork pie hat took a shine to my ginger friend.
Having escaped Parody Patrick, we bumped into our favourite club promotor from the other night, who seemed charming until he regaled us with tales of violence, particularly the GBH charge that had brought him to Marbella. Subsequently, I managed to unwittingly compliment Everton player Marouane Fellaini on his ‘teddy bear hair’. Time to leave! (NB although I did not realise it at the time, I have since been informed by my brother that Fellaini is currently on a three month suspension for violence).
Hasta la vista, Marbella.