Don't rent a car on Tenerife without Island Drives
Two: Getting Noticed
It’s Saturday night in the function room of one of Puerto de la Cruz’ top hotels. There are upwards of 500 guests in glittering gowns, DJs and bow ties and Jack and I are on the brink of causing an international incident that could jeopardise the standing of the entire Canarian Archipelago within the EU.
We’ve only been on the island for 3 weeks for Chrissake; we might have hoped when we moved here we’d make an impression, but this is ridiculous!
I can see the line of sweat on Jack’s forehead.
“What on earth am I going to do?” he whispers, looking frantically around for the emergency exit.
“There’s nothing else for it,” I tell him, “you’re gonna have to confess.”
It’s the annual wine awards and dinner dance, a black tie event that we’ve been invited to by a friend of a friend and for which we dragged Jack’s kilt and dress jacket with us on our one-way ticket from the
Happily ensconced on the top table, surrounded by chattering, be-jewelled widows and the evening’s guest of honour; the Canarian Ambassador to
“Excuse me. Do you mind if I take your photograph for our magazine?”
“Sure.”
Not unduly surprised, as often the only kilt wearer at a social function, Jack’s used to being the recipient of a certain amount of attention.
The camera bulb flashes.
“Can you tell me your wife’s name please?” the photographer whispers into Jack’s ear, before heading off into the milling crowds.
“That’s odd, how come he didn’t want to know my name too?”
I shrug. “I dunno. Perhaps the tickets were in your name.”
“What tickets?”
“Don’t be pedantic.”
The band strikes up a medley of rock ‘n’ roll, sending ageing limbs into a frenzy of jiving which will lead to numerous muscular casualties before the evening’s out.
“Good evening, Sir, Madam. Thank you so much for coming this evening.”
The Canarian host of the event is smiling broadly and shaking us both by the hand in a double-handed clasp.
“Thank you; we’ve had a lovely time.” I reply; my natural good breeding and manners coming to the fore, which is just as well, as Jack appears to be dumbstruck and, I might add, almost rude in his non-responsive manner.
The host moves off, paying scant attention to anyone else at the table, or indeed, as my eyes follow him, to anyone else at the function for that matter.
“What was that about?” Asks Jack, his face betraying all the hallmarks of one whose brain is in headless chicken mode, frantically racing around in the dark for an explanation.
Never having been afflicted with the trait of humility, I proffer my best guess: “It must be because you got on so well with the Ambassador.”
“Oh my god!” Jack’s brain spots a chink of light and a trace of a memory comes back to the fore: “Remember when they started the awards presentation ceremony and the Chairman of the Wine Society introduced the guest of honour?”
“Yeh, and?”
“And where was he pointing when he did that?”
The table seating was such that, from the stage, the Ambassador had been sitting directly behind Jack. Anyone who didn’t know better might easily have followed the Chair’s index finger and drawn the wrong conclusion.
“They think I’m the Ambassador! That’s why the photographer didn’t ask for my name!”
We both instinctively scan the room for the real Ambassador and spot him making his way towards the exit, saying his goodbyes to friends and neighbours as he goes.
A note of urgency has just joined the proceedings.
“You’ll have to confess!” I blurt out, conscious that the Ambassador’s exit from the event without so much as a handshake or a photograph and the ensuing lack of press acknowledgement of his presence could be seen as a snub and could lead to any number of unfortunate repercussions. Not the least of which, may be the publication of a photograph of Jack and me appearing in the island’s foremost lifestyle magazine with the caption:
‘The Canarian Ambassador to
Glancing at the cover of said magazine and noting the red corner “Now on sale in the UK” sticker, I get a sudden image of friends or former colleagues flicking through its pages on the magazine rack of WH Smith and reeling at our unlikely and meteoric climb to the Tenerife Diplomatic Corp…and Jack a Scotsman too!
Jack’s on his feet, radar on full alert for the photographer.
“Oh God! He’s gone into the gents!”
“You’ll have to follow him! The Ambassador’s nearly at the door!”
Jack’s expression was so pained he could have been the ‘before’ picture on a billboard advertising a migraine remedy.
And like the-White-Rabbit-meets-Andy-Stewart’, he’s off and running towards the gents. When they both re-emerge smiling, I hope its just relief on Jack’s part and covered embarrassment on the photographer’s; the alternative’s too complex to contemplate just at the moment.
“Okay, now where’s that Canarian bloke?” and off he goes again.
“Excuse me. “ Jack’s at the host’s elbow; “But who do you think I am?”
The guy looks at Jack and begins his response: “You’re the Canarian Ambass…” then he spots the kilt, slaps his hand to his forehead in cartoon shock and blurts: “Dio mio! You’re Scottish!”
Jack confirms his nationality with a smile and a nod of the head and points to the real Ambassador, whose heels are about to disappear through the exit door.
With the White Rabbit baton safely passed on, Jack now looks like the ‘after’ picture on that billboard and returns to the table for a self-congratulatory glass of the evening’s overall award winner.
The photographer arrives at Jack’s shoulder:
“You’re not anybody famous, are you?” he asks.
“Not yet” comes the 007 retort.