I am writing this from Tunis, having finally escaped the strange package tour world but not without having entered even further into its mysteries…

I had rather had enough of the Monastir Centre, so I decided to move, and found something which described itself as the HOUDA Golf resort , or something like that. In my naïveté, I though this boded well. A golf resort: perfect. It would be full of peaceful old fogeys in checked trousers who would leave early to play golf. Ergo, no one would be running around trying to recruit one to play darts or do the hokey-cokey. There would be no loud music at the pool side which would be left deserted for me to enjoy in peace and quiet. This turned out to be a miscalculation of monumental proportions.
As soon as I arrived I was given a pink bracelet which meant that ‘all-inclusive’ status was bestowed on me. I could drink as much bad wine or beer as I liked. And I drank quite a lot, having first sat down and cried, because I had booked myself in and paid for two days. There was no going back.

There was howling music and a break dancing competition going on as I tried to fight my way to the swimming pool through the beer swigging hoards. There was no one there who looked as if they were remotely interested in golf.
Every square inch of space by the side of the pools seemed to be covered in a heaving mass of pink flesh. A smell of cigarette smoke and suntan lotion permeated the air.
I surveyed the scene and the spirit of Dunkirk descended on me. I dried my tears and squeezed myself onto a sun chair in the shade of a palm tree.
A kind providence had decreed that the lady on the deck chair next to me, Lynn from Cardiff, was both funny and bright as a button. She became my companion for the two days, and we parted the best of friends, she for Cardiff and I for Tunis, our stay having reached a culmination with a Michael Jackson Tribute evening courtesy of the hotel ‘animation team’. It was actually quite good!

But the real news is the following: Keita is arriving on Monday morning!

He will go directly to the clinic. They will send staff and transport which will be waiting for him at the airport at 7 am. It proved impossible that he should leave earlier. Everything is sewn up without any room for manoeuvring, it appears.
Although I am disappointed that I have had to hang around here waiting for ten days on my own, it is of course not important- the amazing thing is that Keita is going to get his stem cell transplant!
I went to see the clinic and spoke to a lady who confirmed the arrangements. Until this point I had hardly believed that it was going to happen. She could not tell me much- not how long the treatment will take, neither if Keita is going to be able to stay with me elsewhere for a few days. She did say that I could stay with him at the hospital. Maybe this is how it has to be- after all we are not here for a holiday…