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.
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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