Living in Spain, warts and all

44ºC in the sun and 33ºC in the house, and it’s just coming up to 7pm. Remind me, if you will, why it was that we chose southern Spain as the point on the globe with the climate that we felt would best suit us.

As I sit here semi-naked before my keyboard I am aware that I am slowly liquefying. There are little springs arising all about my person and running impatiently in rivulets to kiss the floor below my chair. My musculature lies torpid and unbiddable and my brain is melting and running out of my ears. The ceiling fan above me is swooshing round efficiently but the air it moves is too warm to be of much help. Pretty soon I’m going to have to drag my reluctant and bone-idle limbs off this chair to get a bowl of iced water for my feet – the only remedy that seems to work for me in this heat.

I made a vain attempt to siesta earlier, in a bid to make it comatose through the worst of the heat and to assuage in part my need for sleep so that I can be awake and functional at midnight and beyond when the cooler and fresher night air revives me. Alas, slumber eluded me as I lay fretting about all the furry and feathered children in my care. Ridiculous though it is, I worry when they’re kicking off but I worry more when they are deathly quiet.

So I heaved myself out to the bird house and spent a while showering the parrots. This is always given a mixed reception. Jack and Lucas absolutely adore it, and throw themselves bodily into the stream of water with their wings fully outstretched, heads down, shaking their tail feathers and making gratifying noises of appreciation. J.T. bears it but chatters crossly at me. Little Sweetpea darts around manically to avoid the water droplets, Oven-Ready sits and screams at the top of her lungs and Cookie stands on one leg and chews his nails worriedly. I carry on regardless and tell them how refreshing it is, while they observe me coolly as one would an insistent clown with a large lapel flower.

As I retreated from the parrot soup, I tripped over the hulk of Marcos lying across the doorway and, noting his laboured panting and voluminous slobbering, decided that he was sporting altogether too much hair. So I took him into the house with me – a rare treat that had his huge tail beating against doors, furniture, walls, me – until he realised that he was probably being conned since we were ending up in the bathroom. I shut the door before he could organise all parts of himself to turn and flee, so he flopped on the floor and regarded me with the sad eyes of the betrayed.

However, it was not the dreaded shower that I had in mind for him. Instead, I sat on the floor with him and set upon his long and straggly locks with John’s best hair clippers – sorry, ex-best hair clippers.

It took me the best part of an hour to do my worst. At the end of it, I would not be exaggerating if I told you that the mountain of blond hair (his, not mine) obliterated any sign of the loo in there. Fortunately, Marcos decided he quite liked the whole experience – all apart from the rather rapidly-executed foray into the dreadlocks of his underbelly near his private parts, which part of the exercise I regarded with as much trepidation as he did. So on the whole he stayed still enough for the entire process to be counted a success. Okay, I’m not likely to be considered the Vidal Sassoon of dog coiffure, but at least he’s (pretty much) the same length all over and there aren’t (too many) long straggly bits left. And he still has both eyes, the majority of both ears, and his sensitive bits.

He obviously appreciated the lightening of the load. When I took him back outside he jumped and gambolled in what he obviously thought to be the fashion of a spring lamb – an incongruous sight, given that he looked more like an elephant trying to be a dolphin.

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Comments on: "Hot and can’t-be-bothered" (5)

  1. Well, SNL, (Semi-Naked Lady), this is all just unabashed and unabated Internet Bestiality Ceiling Fan Shorn Porn! There´s all sorts of civilization-toppling activity going on here, so I´ll be calling (at the very least) the Guardia Civil and I don´t mean the ones with Normal Uniforms but those with The Plastic Upside Down Chamber Pot Hats! And as Lorca said, almas de charol. So, now you know, It Can´t Be Allowed Under Any Circumstances ….hmm, lost my tirade, moment of heat stroke, remind me why I came to Madrid-type Spain where I get the heat of the south but not its charm. Ha! I´m SNL too! What a pitiful state for a Brit to be in – and me a Scot! We´re supposed to weave wool and coory up in the rain! One didn´t see Mel (not the Spice Girl, but the JuudenBlaasterRoadster) wiping the sweat off his undercarriage in BravePart,did one?

    Well, I´m not up to anything ese but drool now. And I drool over your site.

    Also hot but making a huge effort to be bothered,

    Mo (actually Maureen but it´s so damned looong……)

    • Mo, my dear, I feel it probable that you have been in Mediterranean climes far too long if you can find smut in ceiling fans, parrot showers and dog clippings, albeit that most involved my glistening undressed flesh.

      Regarding my lack of attire, I must defend myself against comparisons with the likes of Mel in CraveFart, as he was not revolting in the frying pan of Spain in July, as indeed I am.

      As for involving the highest-ranking Toytown Police in pursuit of my perceived crimes against sensibility, I can only point out the error in your supposition that I would still be alive by the time they arrived to investigate.

      Finally, regarding your haphazard spittle, I must berate you. Of all my fragile fluttering utterances into the great universal void, those that I net and pin lovingly into my published works constitute my little piece of immortality. Your careless dribbling over them, diluting and threatening to drown them, is a tad disrespectful and I must implore you kindly to refrain.

      Deb (actually Deborah but it’s so damned biblical)… xx

      • I stand berated, dear Deb, as I would never wish to drown the merest kitten, never mind your airborne fluttering birds! So I´ll never again drool but give your writing the respect it so clearly deserves. (Small mime of fiftyish lady removing sunhat and bowing) Mo xxx

  2. Flippin’ Hell, it is hot on this side of the Med too. Liam and I move in slow motion to avoid looking like wet fish. And let’s not go there with activities of an adult kind!

    • Actually, Jack, no activity is further from my mind than sex in the present conditions, save possibly lighting the log fire in the lounge!

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