"Is the plane meant to tip this much?"
It's a good question. You haven't been on a plane for several years, and you find yourself struggling to remember. Last time, you recollect, you'd had substantially more sleep during the flight and substantially fewer crayons lost in and around your chair. Coming on holiday with your best friend Flora had seemed like a great idea when she'd suggested it, and you'd jumped at the chance. You didn't really stop and consider the fact that these days she had two pre-school children.
However, as it had been neither Jeremy or Michella pestering you with the question about the angle at which your plane was coming in to land, and especially as the question didn't begin with the word "why," you feel that you should probably respond.
"Oh, yeah, it's fine. I've done this loads of times. I thought the same thing at first... but this is coMPLETELy normal."
You're not a big fan of raising your voice most of the time, but when it's a choice between raising your voice or not getting the end of your sentence out because of several tyres screeching as they hit a runway, it's an easy decision.
Flora and her offspring are no less excitable during the 20 minute transfer from the airport to your hotel on peaceful, tropical Summer Island. At times the bus lurches and veers so much you feel as though you're back in the air. And along some of the island's less-well-kept streets, you'd have been right. You half expect Flora to return to asking whether the angles at which your vehicle is tipping are safe and this time you don't think you could reassure her with the same look of conviction.
By the time you arrive at the hotel, you're exhausted, and you're in two minds as to whether you should make the most of the remaining few hours of the day and head to the beach with the three others or whether to make the most of the hotel room you've been allocated.
You decide to get some shut-eye in the hotel for a few hours.
The Cubert Badbone Theme Room
You desert Flora and the kids and head over to your room. Strangely enough, you discover that Flora booked the Cubert Badbone theme room, meaning that everything, including the TV, is black and white.
"Oh well," you mutter to yourself. "It could be worse. We could have gotten the Out of Order theme room, after all." (Although the Out of Order room is in colour, everything in the room is, you guessed it, out of order.)
You then drop your bags on the floor and climb up on the Baked Potato-shaped bed, closing your eyes.
You decide to toss and turn, unable to sleep.
"ARGH I CAN'T SLEEP!!!"
Hey, hold on, you mum always said, if you can't sleep on a potato bed in a completely black and white room, you should drink a mug of warm milk. You do so, and begin to drift off...
You decide to have a nice dream.
You dream you wake up and head down to the beach, glad to be rid of Flora and the brats.
The sand is a sparkling white, and large ocean waves roll in one after the other in slow motion as the sun glints surrealy off the water.
"What I need now is to meet a buxom bikini babe," you think to yourself. You know it's a dream and try to conjure up a friendly beautiful woman to talk to.
You decide to see Pamela Anderson.
A Fathom Too Far
You wade into the water and flail about half heartedly in an attempt to gain the attention of the blond lifeguard you can see in the distance. Unfortunately you fail to notice the speedboat thrashing it's way towards you with two drunken students hooting excitedly at the wheel. They skim past you missing you by inches but you are drawn momentarily under the water by their wake.
It is at this point you remember that you cannot in fact swim. Yes, you got a little fabric shield awarded to you in school for managing to flail your way helplessly from one end of the pool to the other but this cruel ocean is a far way away from the three foot deep safety pool of your childhood. You bubble and gasp as you're drawn deeper and deeper under the surface.
As any old wife or teacher of urban mythology will tell you, when you die in a dream you will surely wake up dead! And this happens now.
In your final moments you peer through the encompassing water and see Pamela Anderson swimming towards you in stylized slow motion, accompanied by some awful 80's pop tune.
'Bugger', you think and die.
How about another random story?