A Morning Like Clockwork
It’s almost eerie how well I’ve been sleeping in Tampa. I mean, really well. No tossing, no turning, no bizarre dreams involving talking iguanas or missing flights—just solid, glorious, uninterrupted kip. And so, true to form and with absolutely zero complaints, I woke up just before 08:00 feeling like a freshly fluffed hotel pillow.
And as if on cue, there they were—Helen and Brian—our very own early birds, chirping away quietly in the living room, each with a book in hand, looking like they were auditioning for a retirement community brochure. I, still half-asleep but with caffeine-fuelled optimism on the horizon, stumbled towards the coffee pot and did what any self-respecting Brit abroad would do: checked the work emails.
Full English… Well, Almost
Just as my brain cells started rubbing together again, Helen sauntered into the kitchen and whipped up a breakfast that would make any greasy spoon proud: scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and mushrooms sautéed to perfection. No beans, sadly, but we’ll let that slide.
Honestly, Helen’s breakfasts are rapidly becoming a highlight of this trip. There’s something so comforting about sitting around a breakfast table in a Floridian condo, looking out at palm trees while scoffing down a fry-up. It’s like a weird but wonderful blend of Blighty and the beach.
Sunday Sport Spectacular
Lights Out and Away We Go
Once the plates were cleared and the bacon grease had settled, it was time for that sacred Sunday tradition: motorsport. Brian and I, like two tech-savvy detectives, managed to sniff out coverage of the Emilia Romagna Grand Prix. And what a race it was!
Lewis Hamilton, bless him, started in 12th place but clawed his way up to a very respectable 4th. Watching him manoeuvre that car around the Imola circuit was like witnessing ballet at 200mph. The man’s still got it. There was plenty of shouting at the telly, the occasional armchair analysis from Brian, and even a cheeky fist-pump when he overtook Leclerc. Sorry, Charles, nothing personal.
Arsenal, As Always
Then came part two of our sporting double-header: football. Not just any football, mind you, but Arsenal. Brian’s beloved Gunners were taking on Newcastle, and let me tell you, tensions were running higher than a Florida thermostat in July.
A tidy 1-0 win sealed the deal, keeping Arsenal nestled nicely in second place in the Premier League table. Brian was positively glowing—well, as much as an emotionally-restrained Arsenal fan can glow. A triumphant result, followed by a very dignified, “Well, that’ll do,” from him. I suspect if they’d lost, the rest of the day would have been conducted under a storm cloud of gloom, so thank you, Arsenal, for sparing us all.
Sun, Shade and Suspenseful Reads
A Jack Reacher Kind of Afternoon
With the sports drama out of the way, it was time to switch gears into full relaxation mode. The afternoon was split down the middle: the sun-worshippers (Helen and Michele) basked on the balcony with their books, while Brian and I, pale and proud, opted for the shadier side of life.
My companion for the afternoon? None other than Jack Reacher, doing what Jack Reacher does best in Killing Floor. There’s something satisfying about reading a book where the hero can sort out any problem with a single punch or a squint. The Florida sun may have been beaming, but the action on those pages was even hotter.
There’s something indulgent about spending a couple of hours lost in a book while the warm breeze drifts through and the only decision to make is whether to turn the page or take a sip of your drink first. I chose both, naturally.
Carbonara & Catch-Ups
Chicken Carbonara Delight
Dinner—or tea, as we still stubbornly call it—was a homemade affair courtesy of Michele. The dish? Chicken carbonara. Creamy, comforting, and outrageously moreish. She’s got the knack, that one. There was a brief moment of negotiation about who’d do the washing up, but after some not-so-subtle shuffling of plates and disappearing acts, Brian graciously volunteered. Or was volunteered. Details are fuzzy.
A Quick Chinwag with Cousin Julie
Post-tea, I snuck in a cheeky 30-minute call with my cousin Julie. It’s amazing how a quick chat can make you feel grounded—even if you’re 700 miles away from your own front door. We talked about everything from the weather (obviously) to our dearly beloved children. She even laughed at the fact that I’d never wanted to visit the US but had actually seen more of it than she had, even living here!
Chasing Sunsets and Lost Treasure
Sunset Strolls
Once the sun started making its dramatic descent, Michele and I wandered over to the beach to catch the sunset. It’s become something of a ritual now, and honestly, I’m mad about it.
The sand was still warm from the day, the water lapping gently at the shore, and the sky doing its best impression of a watercolour painting. Oranges, pinks, and purples all dancing together like they’d been choreographed. A proper show-off sky, that one.
There’s something quietly magical about standing there, hand in hand, watching the sun dip into the Gulf. It’s the kind of moment that doesn’t need words. (Though that didn’t stop me from narrating it as if I were David Attenborough.)
The Great Ring Panic
Back at the condo, things took a dramatic turn. Helen realised she’d dropped one of her rings. Panic ensued. Cushions were lifted, furniture shifted, and everyone—even Jack Reacher, metaphorically—was on high alert.
Brian even got down on all fours, torch in hand, like a man on a mission. Thankfully, the ring was found before any major emotional breakdowns or trips to the jewellery shop were necessary. Order restored. Crisis averted.
Dolphin Dreams Await
And so, with the mystery of the missing ring solved and the last of the dishes done, we settled in for the night. Tomorrow promises adventure on the high seas—we’re off on a boat tour in search of dolphins. I’ve got my sunhat, my camera, and my best “flipper” impression at the ready.
If we don’t find dolphins, I might just hop in and start making noises until someone points and says, “There’s one!”
