The Old Boy gazed longingly at the huge chestnut brown, delicately curved and dried out leaf which had previously protected the fruit of the palm tree above.
“That would look great as a feature on the decking,” he sighed.
I looked at him q
uizzically and with more than a little dread. The leaf thing was large and lay on the grass next to the table where we were enjoying a late afternoon G&T. I could see the cogs in his brain begin to churn into action and already he was obviously hatching a plan.
It was pointless to hope that he would get distracted by a bikini-clad lady. Our fellow guests in the Madeira hotel had an average age of 92. The Old Boy looked determined just like when he’s on the edge of the sofa and willing Chelsea to win with every fibre of his being.
He began plotting how he would grab it and how he could wrap it in beach towels and stuff it into his suitcase without it breaking. I rolled my eyes and tutted.
Later that evening, we were relaxing in our apartment and watching a hilarious film. Every so often the Old Boy would tiptoe out to the hotel bar to try and snatch his quarry under cover of darkness. However, three times he failed and he came back rather sheepishly after several old dears had looked him over suspiciously for lurking around the outdoor bar tables.
The next morning he strode determinedly into reception and calmly enquired if he could please take the old brown leaf home with him. They clearly thought he was weird but gave him permission to take ownership of the item of garden waste.
Then the Mission Impossible fun started. He lovingly washed the crispy leaf, dried it in the sun and opened both our suitcases to try it for size. It was wider than both of them. Next he went in search of a helpful room maid to see if she had a bin bag. He came back with something more akin to a body bag. In went the leaf and happily its curved shape hung nicely over the handle of his small pull along suitcase.
He got it safely out of the hotel and a slightly bewildered taxi driver placed it tenderly in his boot as though it was an important ancient relic. At the airport we checked in our cases and stood in the longest queue ever to wait for scrutiny by security. As we inched slowly along towards the front my heart was racing and he looked faint.
Finally, the Old Boy placed the large black bag on the belt and the security guard peered in to see the contents. He gave an odd look to his colleague on the screening machine but the leaf travelled through unhindered. Hearts racing, we grabbed the bag and legged it to the coffee shop to get our breath back.
Now we agonised about how we were going to get it into the overhead locker without breaking it. Maybe we’d have to entrust it to a stewardess we thought. That was if she didn’t confiscate it. However, it just about fitted in and he snapped the locker shut with a smug grin. Three and a half hours later, we hauled ourselves through endless corridors at Gatwick Airport to reclaim our baggage.
This was the final hurdle. Could we get the leaf through the notoriously fastidious UK customs? I’m sure I was blushing as we dragged our tired bodies and heavy cases towards the exit. A couple of customs officers peered at us curiously but we kept going. Then the Old Boy stopped briefly just before the final exit door and inexplicably fiddled with something.
“Keep going!” I hissed at him with my heart in my mouth. Clearly I’m not cut out for high adventure.
The mixture of adrenalin and the inedible plane food had made us monumentally hungry. I zipped into M&S to buy us a much needed sandwich and as I returned I could see his little face was beaming like a naughty three year old.
“Oh wow – we did it!” he exclaimed, “My big leaf is going to look so amazing on the decking!”
Which was odd really. Because we don’t have any decking.
