Saturday is Splashworld Day

In an earlier incarnation I was a boy in the 1970s. I strode the world living in hotels and apartments, a new country every month, practically. Unfamiliar bedrooms lead to nocturnal difficulties and we had one last night as Bud tried to find the toilet in my wardrobe.
At breakfast we took our own personal table: I had a fry-up and marvelled at the juices lined up 1973-style. Amazingly, none of the elderly residents had passed over to Blue-rinse heaven overnight.
Splashdown is waterside madness in the middle of Torbay. The Russian hotel receptionist told us to get the #12 bus from the seafront so we stood and waited dutifully. But the English perma-winter struck again and it poured so hard we were wet through in no time, insane in the rain.
We thought we might as well be officially wet so went swimming in the indoor pool: the only occupant of the outside pool was a herring gull.
The rain kept stopping and starting so we never really got the chance to get to the bus stop so I played in the soft play and Jof beat us both twice at 10 pin bowling and gradually we realised we'd have to write the day off, and abandon hope of splashing, because it was splashing.
After lunch in the Aztec bar Jof lined up with the Blue Rinse Brigade and did crocheting: us chaps headed back to the pool. Just as I was getting good at underwater handstands, it was suppertime so we all showered and I had Mrs Miggins' Horse Willy and chips.
After another marathon through the mazes of the hotel I used the official childrens' club for the first and last time, watching the Simpsons movie with a bored blonde, some sad Mega-Bloks and a roomful of upside-down furniture.
The Albert Pub (under the Victoria Hotel, more on that later) was our venue of choice for the football and I watched the second half of the Colombia v Uruguay match in the Med Bar because the Yellow Submarine Soft Play Zone was closed. We all liked Colombia, Uruguay bit off more than they could chew.
Bed approx 10pm so I missed legendary singer/comedian Steve Laister. Jof thought it was a private function but really it wasn't: he made lots of octogenarian-friendly risque wisecracks and sang some Matt Munro power ballads. He gratefully made way for the 'late night disco' with DJ-Bot 'Aana'.
This electronic personality wouldn't pass the Turing test but managed to fill the dancefloor with as many as seven (7) (sieben) dancers of various ages, an odd combination of 38-stone hen nighters and assorted Geriatrica.