What do you get if you mix the lethal combination of Lambrusco, Internet travel websites and a new credit card? Two weeks in Florida and a bank manager who calls security at the mention of your name.
But, oh the excitement! We were all set for a fortnight of family bliss, relaxation and sun, sun, sun… I know, I know, don’t even say it. My predictions are notoriously inaccurate. This is why I’ve never won the lottery, swore Madonna would be a one-hit wonder and was convinced that the Bay City Rollers would outlast the Rolling Stones.
However, day two and not even torrential rain could dampen our spirits as we headed to the fantastic Disney MGM Studios, home of Indiana Jones, the Muppets and many grown adults dressed as animals – something that’s probably outlawed in several conservative US states.
After a couple of hours wandering around in our undeniably chic (!) waterproof ponchos we came across hoards of people waiting for, drum roll, the Power Rangers. My heart sank. The Power Rangers are now strictly banned in this house. Ditto Star Wars, Pokemon, Jackie Chan, Teen Titans and anything else that has scenes of karate, shooting, fighting or general random assault.
I have two wee boys – at the merest suggestion of violence in a television programme, they immediately commandeer the Dyson and the pole that opens the loft hatch, brandish them at each other in a playful yet threatening manner, and before you can say ‘Accident & Emergency’ I’m digging out the first aid kit and dishing out the detention. Someone once gave my five-year-old a Power Rangers DVD – after one viewing he declared a planetary war on his wee brother and attempted a triple-back somersault from halfway up the stairs. Said DVD now resides under the couch, and will not be retrieved until he’s old enough to view it without morphing into Tartan Power Ranger – the one whose mother runs around behind him shouting, ‘Stop that kung fu nonsense right now or I’m burying the biscuit tin in the garden.’
Back to Disney. Regardless of my superhero embargo, my boys were ecstatic when a huge open-top car appeared, blaring the Power Rangers theme tune, and off jumped five dodgy looking characters in luminous helmets and jumpsuits so tight you could’ve counted the intergalactic change in their pockets. One look at my two wee heroes’ rapturous faces and, despite my disapproval, I knew we had to join the huge queue waiting for a photo opportunity. Twenty minutes later, we were next in line to meet one of the Rangers. A few more moments, a few steps forward and… ‘Sorry guys, the Power Rangers have to get back to their vehicle now,’ an official informed us as they suddenly bolted back to their vehicle and took off. Apparently there was a universe that needed saving. Or it was nearly closing time in the Disney staff canteen.
Cue two wee trembling lips. Actually, three if you count mine, but I maintain that was due to a chill caused by rain-soaked nethers. There was nothing else for it – we had to stay in the park for almost three more hours, waiting for their next appearance.
Three long, wet, impatient hours.
When they finally did reappear, there was an undignified, mad scrummage back to the front of the photograph queue. Until husband pulled me back and told me to behave myself.
Call it temporary insanity, but at that moment there was nothing in the world more important than a Kodak moment with a bloke dressed like an Eighties throwback. We shuffled back up the queue. Almost there. Almost. Nearly. It was just about our turn when the heavens opened and we were subjected to another downpour. Immediately, I realised with horror what was about to happen. The rain-fearing Ranger nearest to us quickly turned, searched out his car, started towards it and… was met with a mad Scotswoman blocking his path, saying, ‘You’ll have time for one more photo, Mr Power Ranger’ in a voice that made it clear that rejection was not an option.
Yep, the Power Rangers may have defended our galaxy, conquered enemies from the outer cosmos and saved the earth on a weekly basis, but one of them almost got his Lycra pinged by a jet-lagged, soaking wet, PMT-crazed Glaswegian mother in a plastic poncho.
On reflection, I’m mortified but, hey, it was worth it. Two delighted boys, great memories and fabulous photos on their bedroom walls.
I just wish I could find the Dyson and the pole for the loft hatch.