Alan - A Singular Man – part 1

In all honesty it should be John the Jazz telling this story but he is too busy networking. A typical showman he is driven to wooing every female in sight – regardless of age or beauty – a buttress for his own fading charms? Quite harmless, of course, this dalliance is carried on in plain sight; John has no intention of landing himself in trouble for flirting. Tall, white haired, bronzed and rounded of body, he is still handsome, although I expect he has crossed the three score years and ten barrier, he eulogizes about his legs, more – I suspect – as an crowd pleaser than anything else.
'Maria,' he calls out to the maid, across a sunlit courtyard. She pauses and leans on her broom, always happy to take a break from the daily routine of cleaning dozens of apartments for untidy and sloppy tourists. John the Jazz hauls up the leg of his shorts – to a respectable height, for John is never offensive: 'See these legs, they're still good; the rest kaput.' Maria, from Bulgaria, short and dark, about thirty years his junior, laughs and calls out a few flattering words in broken English.      
I recall a gossipy snippet about Joan Collins. 'Of course the legs are the last to go,' and  sadly acknowledge that in my case they were the first.       
So it has fallen upon my shoulders to tell the story, while John continues to bring filtered rays of sunlight into the lives of young and old sitting round the pool, and I berate myself, for the umpteenth time, for being so stupid as to go away on my own.      
For me it is always the same, a period of time that has to be endured; so why do I persist in putting myself through it? Hotels cater for couples. A single person – correction a single female person – is an anomaly; no one quite knows what to do with her.
This year, I chide myself, it will be different. Therefore, immediately on arrival, I pluck up courage and trespass on to the hallowed ground of the swimming pool, where a scattering of silent sun-worshipping bodies can be seen.Two vast ladies deeply absorbed in their novels. They belong to that group of amorphous bodies, which never move while the sun remains overhead. Their radar is so finely tuned it can pinpoint the exact millisecond the May sunshine moves out of orbit of their gargantuan flesh. In a flash they leap from their chairs, re-arranging either themselves or their recliners into a new position, designed for maximum exposure. 
Then there's the obligatory retired couple, who  go early to breakfast in order to go early to the pool where they remain all day, but never swim. And a slightly younger pairing, neatly attired in matching shirts, shorts and hats, deeply attentive to their matching books, who recline at the same angle (one knee bent up) beneath the shade of an umbrella. There is also a bored young woman tending the pool bar.      
The silence is overwhelming and I retreat to my room for a sleep – always a good option.      
I feel obliged to explain that I am not of the generation that arrives at a hotel, leaps straight onto the diving board and shouts to the world at large, 'Hey I'm here. Anyone wanting a good time shout Ay!' 
No, I am of the generation of English women that know my place. Quite willing for a gentle 'good morning' to suffice for the first day; this to be followed up by, 'what wonderful weather,' on the second, evolving into a full-blown conversation and repartee on the seventh – one hour before I depart. Nevertheless I could write a book about how unfriendly couples – studiously rubbing suntan lotion into each other – can be. Their understanding is that a woman, who travels on her own, is a pariah, a freak of nature and someone to be feared. Even a stilted, 'good morning' in her direction might prove fatal. One unwise word and you could find yourself listening to an out-pouring of a lifetime of illnesses. 

Is their anything worse? There just might be. 
An unwary, 'Oh tomorrow? We're going on the Heraklion tour, aren't we John,' might elicit, 'That sounds wonderful. May I join you?' 
 And how do you get out of that?

So like canine submission, I need to prove to the world at large that I do not suffer from verbal diarrhea and have no desire to latch on to someone else's holiday plans. I do this by sitting quietly under my umbrella for the entire day, stirring only when some sudden poolside activity breaks my concentration, when I look up with an intelligent and amused smile, aware that I remain a figure of deep suspicion, as long as I remain reasonably presentable and don't look half bad in a swimming costume.