“If you find it hard to laugh at yourself, I’d be happy to do it for you.” Groucho Marx

Once upon a time a loooong time ago my lovely school friend and I decided that being single, 21 and at the peak of our youth and gorgeousness (obviously), it was high time we took our chance at a sun-soaked responsibility-free holiday to the Med. The sky would be blue, the sand would be white, the cocktails would flow, and our distinctly ghostly complexions, buffed alabaster by many a summer on Irish beaches being gently caressed by gale force Siberian winds, would be transformed to a becoming shade of olive within mere hours of arrival.

The accepted thing to do in these circumstances, of course, would be to book a 2 star tiled white cell with a balcony, two plastic chairs and no soft furnishings in Costa Del Boozio. For entertainment we could have perhaps considered spending afternoons with someone called Dan, a tanned chap with a love of short shorts, out on his uninsured speed boat, taking turns drinking sangria from plastic glasses and riding an inflatable banana.  

As it turns out we were not very good at it. 

We booked a garden suite in a tasteful 4 star low rise resort hotel favoured by the retired. It was very clean and had a luxury marble bathroom. We were worried about eating dodgy paella in a local taverna and spending the entire holiday staring down the loo and so we also took advantage of the half-board package. 

Instead of waking in a tangle of greasy sheets with a banging hangover and temporary amnesia, we awoke each morning refreshed, removing our eye masks before picking our way through the tropical gardens for mimosas and smoked salmon on the breakfast terrace. 

Perhaps worried that Dan might not be able to find us, we did make some concessions to youth. Though we did spend several afternoons touring sites of historical interest and browsing through the old town for local pottery, we balanced this with inordinate amounts of time spreadeagled by the pool, dripping in an inappropriately low factor sun block (it was 20 years ago: the norm in Ireland at the time was in fact to forego cream or lotion altogether in favour of basting oneself in cooking oil prior to a sunbathing session for that lovely battered sausage glow). For the first time in my life, and against my better judgement, I had also brought a bikini. 

One afternoon we hired bikes and cycled into town. In my mind I looked like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. In reality I fear, I was distinctly more like a younger and sweatier Marina in Last of the Summer Wine. 

There was a boardwalk close to the hotel and having watched countless lithe Amazonian beings zooming past on their roller blades – the perfect balance between athleticism and glamour – we decided to have a go. 

Equipment for hire at the Hotel Villa Jardin Bougainvillia was in a semi-basement level storage garage to one side of the main reception. It was manned by one of the minor Greek deities. A stunning physical specimen with curly blond shoulder length hair and a muscle vest. His visage had caused much flushed giggling the day we had gone to hire the bikes. It was no surprise that we had decided to go back for the roller blades. 

I have always had a penchant for a good honest Celtic man, white hairy shins, pasty complexion and all. But even if I didn’t want a Dan for myself, much like admiring the exotic toucans at the local zoo, there was no harm in looking.  

My wing-woman duly strapped on the blades and zoomed off effortlessly eliciting a “Sehr Gut!” from Dan. (It turned out he was actually one of the minor Bavarian deities). All those years in primary school roller booting round her cul-de-sac on Saturday afternoons had paid dividends now when she needed it most. 

Palms sweating, I put on the roller blades. Truth be told, I was beginning to have serious misgivings about the entire project. In my own version of temporary amnesia I had decided to ignore the fact that I don’t do well when my feet aren’t in direct contact with terra firma. Sometimes I don’t even do well when they are. Adding wheels or a blade, or a blade with wheels, was a recipe for carnage. On another note and entirely unrelated to Dan/Bavarian Zeus of the rental shack, I had worn a denim mini skirt and bikini top. Instead of you know, clothes.

Anyway, I thought, perhaps all those other failed attempts had just been due to a lack of commitment. Perhaps a sheer act of will topped by the very real fear of abject humiliation would be enough to bring forth a nimble balletic grace that had been sadly lacking before. 

My first faltering steps avec blades were not encouraging. “Uh-oh,” said Dan/Zeus. 

He disappeared briefly into the back of the shack and soon re-emerged with a luggage trolley.

“For holding?” he said helpfully in halting English pushing it towards me, head to one side, like an endearing cocker spaniel with pecs. 

“Thank you,” I said awkwardly feeling the flush rise up my neck. I heard a distinct guffaw coming from my wing-woman who had been amusing herself blading in confident circles outside. 

Pushing the luggage trolley in front of me like a zimmer frame I managed to make it outside. “Excellent!” said Dan in the manner of someone who has watched a toddler stack three bricks on top of each other for the first time. 

Channeling a young Jane Torvill in her “Bolero” days I skimmed (shuffled) forward in a halting fashion. But no sooner had I begun to get my blades beneath me than I faced a metaphorical and literal mountain. For in order to get to ground level I had to skate up a short slope to the reception area. It was a slightly curved path about 40 feet long on a very gradual incline. It might as well have been the last kilometre of the ascent to the top of Kilimanjaro. And I was doing it with four wheels attached to each foot. 

My friend who, no doubt eager to start zooming along the boardwalk herself, was full of encouragement. “Don’t worry. I’ll push you to the top. You’ll be fine once you’re on level ground,” she said generously. 

This seemed to make perfect sense. The boardwalk looked so easy. I’d be flying along it in no time. I shuffled sideways to make room for her on the luggage trolley, and tried to look elegant and stately while she pushed it, with me attached, to the top of the hill. I’m sure Jane Torvill had her share of luggage trolley days when she was learning. Everyone has to start somewhere. I tried not to think about Dan/Bavarian Zeus watching this performance but instead focused on remaining dignified under duress.

A few moments later we reached the top of the summit. My companion began to skate in wider and wider circles in the space afforded by the wide reception forecourt. “COME ON!” she shouted joyfully as she glided past. “LET’S GO!”

I tried to go. I very much wanted to go. Every fibre of my being said, “Go!” The problem was I had absolutely no idea how to do so. The fear was overwhelming. I felt like someone who is scared of heights, waking up and finding themselves balanced on the top of the Golden Gate Bridge. Wearing roller skates. I found that if I tried to remain absolutely motionless, including holding my breath, everything was fine. It definitely was the moving that was the problem. 

There was further trouble in paradise though. Because, despite all my best attempts at staying completely still, I seemed to be inexplicably moving anyway. Backwards as it happens. For you see, dear reader, the ground was not absolutely level. Thus gravity and Newton’s first law of motion had duly combined. In other words, I had begun rolling back down the hill.

“Help,” I peeped in a strangled voice, attempting to catch the attention of my zooming friend while simultaneously not catching the attention of the coach load of holiday makers who had just pulled up in front of the hotel, fresh from the airport. She was too far away to hear. I tried again. 

“I don’t know how to stop!” I called out in high-pitched panic as my backwards velocity increased. 

“What?” she stopped some way off looking puzzled as to why I wasn’t moving towards her but rather much farther away. At speed. I can still remember the sense of panic along with a irrefutable sense of inevitability I felt in that moment. Though my knuckles were white gripping the handle of the luggage trolley, I knew it could not save me. There was nothing that could be done. I simply had to live through the impending cataclysm and with any luck survive it. 

I am sad to say I have experienced this sense of resignation in disaster quite a few times in my life. These moments have been vivid and heart-stopping in equal measure. I like to think that regular exposure is a very life-giving process. Like being jolted awake by electrocution.

By this time the speed had become sickening. A few passers by had stopped to watch in some surprise as a bikini-clad, white-faced girl gripping a luggage trolley as though her life depended on it, zoomed past. Backwards. 

My friend by this point had grasped the enormity of the situation and was madly skating towards me. She was shouting something now which I struggled to catch. Finally I worked it out. 

“TURN YOUR FEET! TURN THEM!” 

She was frantically demonstrating this repeatedly, coming to neat quick stops by turning her feet to one side at right angles. She made it look so easy. Not quite understanding what I was supposed to do, but having less than nothing to lose, I turned my feet. 

There was a brief moment in mid-air, when not just my own life, but that of all humanity, flashed in front of my eyes and then with absolute finality and some considerable momentum I hit the deck. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Newton again. And he was not wrong. For as fast as I had been previously moving, I was as now, not moving. The stopping had been both abrupt and violent in its force. 

For some unknown reason I had lost all sense of self preservation in mid-air and had landed face first, banging my chin, hands, elbows and knees off the ground simultaneously. The luggage trolley had fared no better. I lay for some moments trying to ascertain if I was alive or dead in the wreckage of my dreams (not to mention my dignity). 

A hush had descended in the reception forecourt. I began to peel myself off the ground. It was with some difficulty because every single part of my body felt like it had been hit by a mallet. It was at this juncture that I began to deeply regret my wardrobes choices of earlier that morning. It was very hard to continue to look alluring in the bikini after everything I had just been through. Plus, to add insult to very real injury, I still had the blasted roller blades on. 

An elderly gentleman was soon nudged by his wife to come and ease me to my feet. Slowly and painfully, I tottered up holding tightly on to his arm in an ironic role-reversal. Unfortunately now I was fully upright I could see that a second coach load of tourists had pulled up in the interim. Several rows of aghast faces in the buses, plus all the people who had gathered in reception, were now watching me pick myself up. 

Dan/Zeus had jogged back up the hill by this point and, righting the luggage trolley, he and the elderly gentleman began to slowly push me back down the hill towards the hire shack by the same method by which I had ascended mere moments before. 

A ripple of elated and supportive applause broke out from the coaches as the luggage trolley procession pulled away. I allowed myself a brief and regal wave of acknowledgement in their direction. 

Now safely in transit, and no longer under my own untrustworthy speed, I took the opportunity to look around for my friend. She was lying curled up beside a bush clutching her sides. It appeared that she was laughing so hard she had rolled onto the grass, and had fallen over.

Partly from relief that my ordeal was over and partly being overwhelmed by the ridiculous nature of the entire tableau, I lost all sense of decorum and began to giggle myself. By the time I had reached the hire shack the tears were rolling down my face and hysteria had set in.

It will not surprise you to learn that we did not reach the boardwalk that day. In order to keep some shreds of dignity intact we had escaped round the corner and out of sight as quickly as possible in order to avoid further scrutiny from the 100+ tourists complete with luggage still watching our every move with great interest. Since we’d paid for the hour (and that seemed important at the time) I did try a few circuits of the tennis courts, hand over hand, holding on to the chain link fence. But by that time my knees had started to swell like melons and were bulging over the knee pads in a most unbecoming way. 

So I decided it was best to admit defeat, retire to the garden suite and put ice on my aching limbs instead. Perhaps while enjoying a few pleasantly cooled triangles of Toblerone from the minibar just to raise my depleted sugar levels. 

On return to the Emerald Isle, I decided that I had no further need of the bikini. It just wasn’t me. Not to mention that the next time I was to (inevitably) fall over in front of hundreds of people I would much prefer to be fully clothed. Following this moment of self-realisation, and with enormous relish, I ceremonially burned it. I might have considered dancing on the ashes but my bruised knees would not permit it. 

While I cannot recall this escapade without a chuckle there is no doubt that it has taught me two important lessons that have stood the test of time in the intervening years. Firstly, that it is vitally vitally important not to take oneself too seriously and, secondly, that it’s not the hitting the deck that matters, but the bouncing (or creaking) back up. 

It occurs to me in fact, that much like a good quality high-factor sun block, these are lessons that are best discovered young, and then applied liberally and at every opportunity from thence onwards.