Up With the Birds (and a Book)
It was another early start in sunny Tampa—clearly, my body is still on British time or perhaps it’s just the call of the Floridian heat slipping through the blinds. I was up and about by 08:00, and found Helen already pottering about, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Our respective partners, on the other hand, were still snugly snoozing, blissfully unaware of the day’s impending adventure. Ah, the joys of a lie-in.
With the silence of the morning around me, I did what any self-respecting bookworm would do: I brewed myself a coffee and headed out onto the balcony, clutching my well-worn copy (Kindle version anyway) of Killing Floor by Lee Child. There’s nothing quite like a bit of Jack Reacher’s brooding action and questionable moral compass to accompany your morning caffeine fix. Two chapters in and I was already feeling like I could take on the world—or at least the outlet shops.
Breakfast and Burnt Bits
By 08:45, the sleepyheads had stirred, and the scent of bagels and cream cheese soon filled the air. A classic, fuss-free breakfast that hit the spot. We tucked in as we discussed our plans for the day. While the sun was doing its best to tempt us back to the beach, a quick glance at our sunburnt selves said otherwise. Michele and Helen, bless them, had slightly overindulged in solar exposure the previous day and were sporting that familiar “Brits abroad” lobster hue. Even I wasn’t spared—two red blotches had appeared defiantly on the tops of my feet. How? Who knows. It’s one of those great mysteries like where odd socks go or why printers only break when you’re in a rush.
So, with beach plans shelved to let our collective epidermis recover, a new idea was hatched: shopping.
“Hooray!” I cheered with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for dental appointments. “I love shopping days,” I said, in a tone that definitely didn’t convince anyone. No man in the history of men has ever genuinely said that without some coercion or the promise of food.
To Ellenton and Beyond
After much slathering of aftersun and a bit of faffing about, we all bundled into our beast of a vehicle and headed off to Ellenton Premium Outlets—a solid 15-mile jaunt away. Helen took the wheel and I must say, she handled our oversized four-wheeled chariot like a seasoned Floridian Uber driver. Hats off, Helen, hats off.
Michele was positively giddy. She had that sparkle in her eye that only serious bargain hunting can conjure. You could almost hear the mental checklist being ticked off: shoes, tops, handbags… world domination.
But before Michele could make a dent in the local economy, I—yes, me—swooped in for the first purchase of the day. A new hoody! Comfortable, slightly unnecessary in this climate, and probably doomed to be ignored until we return to soggier shores, but a bargain is a bargain. And with that one act, I declared my shopping obligations fulfilled. I’d done my part. No further questions, your honour.
Michele, naturally, was just getting started. As we wandered from shop to shop, her arms began to fill with branded bags, each one a trophy from a successful retail conquest. I half-expected to see her doing a celebratory shopping dance in the food court. Helen, ever the reliable chauffeur, waited patiently with a smile, no doubt wondering if we’d ever be able to fit all the loot back into the car.
Airbnb Adventures and Minor Mishaps
We eventually made our way back to the apartment, victorious but knackered. The early evening air was warm but forgiving, and we found ourselves back on the balcony, this time armed with chilled drinks and a long list of things that needed fixing in our Airbnb. Enter Scott, our host, via the magic of messaging.
Now, Scott is a lovely chap, but let’s just say he’s not winning any awards for his maintenance prowess. We rattled off a list of “minor” issues that hadn’t been sorted—nothing catastrophic, mind you, just enough to give us something to moan about over a beer. There’s a certain camaraderie that forms over broken bedroom doors and a noisy AC unit, and we were deep in it.
Spag Bol to the Rescue
While we moaned and messaged, Michele got stuck into dinner prep. And oh my days—what a feast. She whipped up a Spaghetti Bolognese that would have made any Italian nonna nod in approval. Rich, hearty, and utterly delicious, it disappeared faster than a toddler’s patience in a supermarket. Plates were cleared, compliments were given, and not a single complaint was uttered—a rare moment of unanimous satisfaction.
Teenage WiFi Trauma
Just as we were basking in the post-dinner glow, our son Lewis sent through a string of messages that can only be described as a digital SOS. The WiFi at home was apparently malfunctioning. Now, in fairness, this wasn’t quite a national emergency, but in the mind of Lewis, dodgy WiFi is on par with famine, pestilence, and forgetting your TikTok password.
After some frantic parental tech support, we managed to (hopefully) resolve the issue. No further cries for help were received, so either the problem was fixed, or he gave up and went feral. Time will tell.
Beer, Banter, and Beachside Dilemmas
With the tech drama behind us, Brian and I resumed our manly duty of emptying the beer stash. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow across the balcony as we chatted away about the day’s events, our shopping survival, and whether sunburn actually counts as a medical condition.
Then came the question of tomorrow: do we risk returning to the beach and braving the wrath of the midday sun? Or do we let the girls’ fair Lancastrian skin recover in peace and opt for something less… UV-intensive?
The jury’s still out on that one. As the beers went down, so did our decision-making capabilities. That, my friends, is a problem for tomorrow.
Night Night, Sleep Tight
And with that, we called it a night. Bellies full, feet sore, and faces smiling (if a little sun-scorched), we drifted off to bed, each of us no doubt dreaming of discounts, SPF 50, and another helping of that glorious Bolognese.
Until tomorrow, Tampa. You’ve been a treat.
