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Sport 40: 2012

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There’s something grandiose about a Last Trip. My aunt and sister succumb to family pressure and take Gran for a last trip abroad. They head to the Mediterranean island of Mallorca. ‘Where Chopin and his lover George Sand hid from prying eyes in the Valldemosa monastery,’ I sigh, green with envy. ‘An island famed in the eighties for pig barbecue orgies among Swedish package tour travellers,’ my sister dryly remarks. No doubt the Mallorcans are pleased tourism has moved on. As it turns out, Mallorca’s heritage sites and natural beauty are wasted on this family expedition. According to family agreement, the two minders will indulge all of Gran’s whims, including a glass of red wine and dessert every day. Gran adores parrots, and as soon as she learns about the aviary her mind is set. Ever since my auntie watched Hitchcock’s infamous movie she’s nursed a bird phobia. A bottle of Scotch is what it takes to get my sister to volunteer as a bird guide. The day is overcast and the parrots are hiding, but my sister assures us they spot a few as she tows Gran through the outdoor aviary. The minute they’re back at the hotel, Gran complains that she didn’t see a single parrot. My sister is deeply insulted. My aunt suspects Gran has lost her eyesight. Later, at dinner, Gran visibly stiffens and points at the white wall. ‘Isn’t that a mosquito?’ Dutifully my sister rises and lets Gran navigate her to the indicated speck. Sure enough, it’s a mozzie. ‘Unbelievable,’ my sister says through clenched teeth. Safely back home, my sister is inundated with questions about her beach holiday. It doesn’t help that she denies having sighted any beach at all. If anything, she’s now in need of a holiday. Then rumours arise that Gran wasn’t allowed to indulge in page 105 dessert even once. ‘Un-be-lievable,’ my sister says. She refuses to speak about Mallorca ever again.