It had not been a good day for Mrs Whojimaflip. Her attempts to take some good holiday snaps had ended in miserable failure. On the boat, the portholes had been so steamed up or covered in salt, that it had been impossible to take any photos of the lovely sunset. As if that was not bad enough she had taken 70 shots only to find that the AUTO button had not been engaged and therefore they were all hopelessly out of focus,
When the boat docked she successfully managed to negociate the gangway without falling into the water, but had taken such vigorous and deliberate steps that she had split her petticoat right up the back.
By the time Mrs Whojimaflip had reached her hotel, she was ready for the famous Norwegian Cold Table which was laid out in the dining room.
Seated on her left were the Bunty sisters who had a voracious appetite. On her right there was a family who barely fitted round the table. The moother weighed 26 stones and the father was not far behind, she was reliably informed by the holiday rep. The daughter went up to the cold table seven times, each time returning with a plate which was overladen with food.
By the time she got there, not much was left.
'They haven't read the booklet the hotel gave us,; said Mrs Whojimaflip's friend..
Mrs Whojimaflip said nothing. In a suppressed rage, she closely studied her knapkin in the hope that she would learn a few words of Norwegian before the waiters brought out some more food. But as she suspected, they never came.
She detested that large family.