It all proved too much for Mrs Ray. We were in St Kitts and Nevis for a week-long Caribbean break and on the flight over I’d wondered aloud how early each day it would be acceptable to start on the rum. I soon got my answer.
Having misguidedly checked in to the St Kitts Marriott Resort – a vast, half-empty hangar of a place complete with plump, elderly Americans whirring by on mobility scooters; an over-priced restaurant serving only that which was deep-fried; and a deserted poolside bar peddling watery rum punches and a casino that smelt of damp and despair – our spirits were further flattened by finding that the restaurant we’d been recommended for dinner and to which we’d walked in the driving rain was shut.
‘All happy now,’ exclaimed Mrs Ray with a beaming smile. ‘That’s what I call breakfast’
The following morning, after a sleepless night spent listening to stray cats fight below our window, Mrs R turned to me with disappointment writ large in those big, brown eyes of hers and said, ‘That rum you mentioned.
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