Get Out My Seat!

I made two new friends last night! I had a great time visiting with seven wonderful people (including San Geraldo) at the holiday dinner. I didn't have much to do with the other hundred-plus, but the restaurant, the music, the energy, and the company were a pleasure. Of course, we were at the best table — Ann (aka Slushee) and her husband Darren (the chef at Sandpiper); Fran and Chris (who run Cafe Manila); and Fay and Fred, another warm, kind, interesting, and charming couple who came to Fuengirola from England years ago.

FAY, GETTING INTO THE SPIRIT.

TURNING SOME GREEN TINSEL INTO AN ELF'S BEARD.

SAN GERALDO: "DID YOU KNOW MITCHELL HAS A BLOG?"

MITCHELL: "I'LL POST THESE PICTURES TOMORROW."

The tables were festooned with Christmas decorations and treats — including Christmas "crackers" so popular in the UK. Our Christmas crackers were all duds. Not one at our table popped. In addition, there was a giant confetti tube, which you were supposed to twist to explode. No one could get it to work. By the time Fran got her hands on it, there was clearly no hope. Finally, Darin simply ripped it open and poured the confetti all over the table.

SAN GERALDO WITH THE CHRISTMAS CONFETTI TUBE.
(FRED AND FAY LEANING AWAY FROM THE EXPECTED EXPLOSION.)

DARREN GIVES IT A GO.

SLUSHEE HAS A WHACK AT IT.

AND IT GOES COMPLETELY LIMP FOR FRAN.
(WOULDN'T YOU JUST LOVE TO KNOW WHAT CHRIS IS THINKING?)

I might have gotten lucky last night if I had chosen. Well, on second thought, few people would have called it "lucky." There was an open bar and there were a number of people who took advantage of that. Thankfully, no one at our table got carried away.

ANOTHER DRINK FOR TIPSY.

But at one point, fairly early in the evening, a woman came walking back from the dance floor... No, wait, she came careening back from the dance floor. When she reached our table, she stopped, slapped me (hard) on the shoulder and demanded, "Get out my seat!"

Her eyes were a bit bleary. "What ya doin' in my seat?!?" she demanded.

Before I could respond, another woman came from behind and said as she dragged her away, "Sorry 'bout my friend. She's lookin' for 'er 'usband."

I laughed and asked, "Is she looking for her husband or a husband?"

Later on, "Tipsy" was again on the dance floor and had us all very concerned. The dance floor was at the top of three steps and she was twirling awfully close to the edge. Amazingly, she didn't go over (although she nearly twirled herself into oblivion several times).

BACK ON THE DANCE FLOOR WITH NOT HER HUSBAND.
(HIS HAND GOT A BIT MORE "FAMILIAR" AT TIMES.)

Tipsy got drunker, sloppier, and more ridiculous as the night wore on. And she wasn't done with me either. On another trip back to her table, she again stopped at ours, slapped me on the arm and demanded, "Where's my 'usband?!?"  I said, "He's at the next table, where you're supposed to be." ('Poor guy,' I thought to myself.) She leered at me and stumbled on.

'USBAND AND WIFE.  HOLD ONTO YOUR ANTLERS!

A few minutes later, Tipsy was back on the dance floor with "'er 'usband." I no longer felt sorry for him. They were a matched set.

MEANWHILE, BACK AT OUR SEDATE TABLE.