Spain. In instalments....

2 August

What a weird day. I got up disgustingly late (around 12 – yay!) and mooched until I heard thunder. The sky went serious black, with that gorgeous pre-storm 40 watt light, and then it rained. Rained and rained and rained for about two hours. As it eased off, dad spent 20 minutes explaining to me how to get to the beach, access the cliff walk and find my way home. Oh right. So I’m being chucked out, then.

I took a book, some cash and my keys and buggered off. So that’s what being seriously unwelcome feels like.

I walked down to a beach ravaged by storm flooding – there to find the sun-grilled English frolicking in a post-storm ocean – only the dimmest tourists would ignore the frantic life-guard who was trying (in vain) to dissuade them from swimming in a cloudy ocean. Had they had any sense at all, they would have realised the clouds came from untreated sewage backed up from blocked drains. Ah fuck ‘em. Evolution in action. There were the largest ‘roaches I’ve seen outside Australia running across the sand, and I made for the cliff walk, glad to be free of the chaos.

The cliff walk takes about 45 minutes to get to Cabo Roig, which is the next area along from us. There’s a bar above the marina there that I like to drink in as I can rest my feet on a small wall, make like a lizard and bask in sunshine, read and drink beer in glasses frosted straight from the freezer.

I got there, having stopped along the way to sit on walls and talk to the ocean. I like talking to the ocean. It thinks I’m stupid but is far too polite to say so. Or distracted. Probably more distracted. Anyway, the route is full of aloe vera plants that look to all the world like dried out squid, jammed head first into dry earth with just their tentacles visible.

At Cabo Roig I went and got myself a beer then sat outside and read. I’d made the mistake of smiling at the barman (as a means of getting served) but it turned out he took this as a major come-on. I should have figured that out with the first wink. I’m almost at the first rant of the day, so bear with me. Or don’t. But I’d rather you stayed. Maybe we could go for pizza when I’m done frothing… :)

Anyway, as I’m reading, the waiter (changed into civvies and obviously finished his shift) appears, mumbles something in Spanish about joining me, sits down with his beer and introduces himself. And winks, again. If I tell you his name was Manuel you must promise not to pull the same face I did…

He grins a grin that shows off both of the last two teeth in his mouth (oh sweet Jesus have mercy on me) then takes my hand and kisses it. Whilst winking. But not the funky kind of kiss that allows for flirting and potential filth (actual filth is usually unbearably disappointing, but potential filth…ah, there’s a reason to breathe…) – this is the kiss equivalent of when some greasy shopkeeper, girls, palms you your change – you know what I mean, right? And leaves you feeling like you want to peel your hand rather than use skin that’s been slimed.

I play nice. He asks me lots of questions. What is your name? (Winks) How old are you? (Winks) Are you here on holiday? (Winks) What are you reading? Blah blah fucking blah. He asks me what I am doing that night. I tell outrageous lies about my boyfriend and I (I use a composite creature that is part the last two ex’s and mostly the one I want) but this seems to have no effect whatsoever. Damn. Then he tells me I have beautiful eyes. I say thank you. He winks. He tells me I have beautiful skin. I say thank you. He tells me I have beautiful lips – I manage not to laugh out loud and then still say thank you. Then, in appalling broken English, he asks me if I have two minutes (two minutes?!) because if I do, I can come along the road with him to his friend’s bar where I can wrap these beautiful lips around……I’m sorry, are you having lunch? I should have asked.

Anyway, I say (in very small words, some of them the limited Spanish I have) that I intend to stay right here, and maybe him and his fetid knob can fuck off and let me get back to my book.

He winks at me. Again. What is it with the fucking winking??

He goes away and I am glad.

And so it gets me thinking. I love to flirt. Ok, so I’m rubbish at it, but dammit the same logic never stopped me dancing. Or having sex. But the flirting thing is very, very dependent on lots of other things. An ability to flirt – or just to feel even the teeniest bit sexy – is entirely dependent. What if I washed and dried my hair and it came out looking like the arse end of Basil Brush? What if I am having a fat day? What if the only thing I feel like wearing is my duvet? What if I’m pre-menstrual and so spotty, clammy, sweaty, bloated, crabby and in silly amounts of pain? What if I’ve just seen a part of me I hate from the wrong angle in the mirror? What if I’ve made the mistake of going shopping and seen myself in a three-way mirror?! What if…what if…what if….

Pretty much all the women I know are susceptible to these and other influences.

But here was a man with two teeth to his name, skin like a pock-marked and battle-scarred ship, bags under his eyes you would have paid excess for at check-in and yet he felt sexy enough (eeewwwww) to flirt outrageously. To expect some kind of (granted, foul) sexual encounter. Does he own a mirror? Is self-awareness some distant, unattainable quality his species lives in revered anticipation of?

Christ almighty, he was repugnant.

Anyway, after that I read till around 6.30pm then walked the next bit of the cliff walk. As I passed along the back of the third beach of three, I found that the last beach has an extra bit tagged on after a breakwater, which is very sheltered, was still basking in early evening sunlight and was utterly deserted except for one guy in the water.

I went for a swim. I ploughed up and down through clear, clean water, then lay in the shallows and let the gentle waves woogle me about for an hour. It felt fucking sublime.

Then I walked ten minutes up the road and nearly home but decided I couldn’t face the parental thing just yet so went to the restaurant at the end of our block where a Russian waiter called Mario always looks after me. He and his co-workers think me odd because whenever I go there, I go alone and always go sit right at the back of the courtyard and read. Just me and a drink.

I got settled and without needing to order, my drink arrived. With a wink. If I can have the South Park ending, I learned something today. I learned about men who wink and what that wink means. Nothing I learned has made me particularly happy. Anyway, I read for three hours and then decided to go home. I was starving.

As I got there, I found my dad on his scooter, all set to go searching for me. It’s not until we are having dinner that I discover this is his third recce of the day.

Now, you would have to be an immature ingrate to be fucking livid at having parents who will come look for you as it gets dark, but livid I was. All I could think was, you chucked me out the fucking house this afternoon, I had money and my phone and my keys and a book – what the holy fucking crap are you doing out looking for me?

Ok, so if I had been dead in a ditch somewhere, my corpse wouldn’t have had to wait until morning to be discovered, but really, I think I can manage.

Jesus, I know it’s wrong to be angry, but I really was. But you can’t complain, can you? You can’t say – what the crap are you doing out looking for me, I’m a grown up, how dare you worry about me? How dare you want to be sure I’m safe?

All the ingredients were there today to make me very happy – a storm-tossed ocean, a livid sky, evening calm, an ocean to swim in, a book, cold beer and random adventures. So why do I feel like the day was only on loan to me, something to look at but not truly experience? I have a redundant need to lay blame, but that’s a waste of time. I was alone, just me and a story and a body of water, and that’s – at least on paper – such an idyllic day for me, but it didn’t feel like that. It felt like I was on the end of a retractable dog-leash, expecting at any minute the whim of a bored master to cause me to be reeled in, chastised, restrained and restricted. And that’s shit.

Two nights ago the only way I could process a similar feeling was to stay up all night, headphones on, dancing round my room to seth’nlara compilations. That was fun.
Weird, isn’t it? I got handed a beautiful day, one that ended in me being home safe and sound, and all I can find is fault. What an immature ingrate.

27 July
In the market yesterday I had a genuine Uzumaki moment. The stall where we bought the yummiest bunch of black grapes ever, also had a huge old-farmhouse-stylee wide wooden bucket that was heaped to overflowing with snails. And here we are back again at the what-I-won’t-put-in-my-mouth list. They were alive, obviously, and so the mountain of shells kept shifting slightly, turning and tumbling. As the shells have the most beautiful, intricate spirals on them, this was my idea of Uzumaki heaven. It was especially weird because you could hardly see the actual snails doing the moving, but then when you could, you had to wonder about the people who choose to eat them. They were the colour of sea-glass and don’t appear as slimy as you would think. They are fascinating to watch for reasons I haven’t quite figured out yet, but I was just enjoying the spiral overdose. The shells were the most gorgeous colours and I really wanted some of them, but they had living, crawling snot inside them so I decided I could live without.

Talking of mucus, I made the mistake of watching 15 minutes of Sky news last night. I was going to have a rant about the fact that, having watched the police press conference in the immediate wake of last week’s botched bombings and then watched Sky rewrite the truth over a series of bulletins, their capacity for persistent lying is nothing short of breathtaking. But it’s stating the bleeding obvious so I’m not going to bother.

Today I look like badly-done toast, as I keep falling asleep in the sun and only tanning one half of me. This would be fine if there was jam jam jam spread on the other side, but it’s not that kind of holiday, sadly, so sooner or later I will need to remember to fall asleep the other way up.

I was watching Spanish wasps last night aim their little drills at the ground and buzz away to dig a little hole. Why are they doing this? Is this so they can bury stuff they’ve killed? Have they just done a robbery and need to stash the loot? Are they mental? Do they live sideways and think they’ve reached the edge of the world? Is this some form of perverted waspy sex? I’m going with the hiding-the-food idea. It makes mad sense, sort of. But then how do they find it again? Maybe this is why wasps are so bloody angry all the time – they’re starving to death…

25 July
So we have been without a working computer for about four days. I suppose that’s not so terrible but does it really explain the mood I hit or wandering around aimlessly during siesta, staring at the dead PC and then grumping off again? No, I suppose not, but being without a computer or an online connection has been horrible. Happily, a wee Lancashire man came today and disposed of our corrupted version of Windows and fixed everything. What a hero. I am now free to dribble online again :) Also, I was spared the Georgie Fame gig. Hallelujah! It's been a silly-hot day and I have read and stayed horizontal, which as a lifestyle choice is smashing :)

24 July
My day officially started after no sleep and not making it out for a run in the early hours. A blechy start to the day but after a few hours flat out under a near-midday sun, I felt a little better and tidied myself up for a lunch with new friends of my parents. Israeli Orthodox Jews. You can imagine my joy. The husband had chosen to observe the Fast of Tamuz, an obscure fast of around 8, I think, in any given year. For anyone who doesn’t know, Judaism is kinda big on fasting – you go roughly 26 hours without food or water, although are permitted to take medication if so prescribed and also to brush your teeth (though naturally you should spit and not swallow…). I used to do them (fasts, not my teeth), only now I don’t. Which anyone who’s seen me from behind will have gathered :) Anyway, he’d chosen to observe because of ‘the situation’ though which particular situation he didn’t specify – perhaps it’s bowel and not terrorist related – and his skinny Israeli Yiddish/American wife is only available on one frequency – that of her own voice – as she tunes out rather spectacularly when it’s not available. Stunning to watch, really. They have three sons. So it’s around 40 degrees and I’d gladly stick a fork in my own head if it would effect an ambulance-aided escape. She deigns to relate a story that needs a little explanation – Jews are big on helping each other out – it’s one of the things I like about this religion. The same charity is usually extended in any religion, but as ever, you tend to find that Jews believe they do it better, or for purer reasons. Whatever. It is like that to the extent that every time we were discussing anything – from why you give someone a lift to why you employ someone needy, she kept saying “because we’re Jews. Because we’re Jews. Because we’re Jews” ad nauseum. Not “because we are good people” or “because we’re all human and you do what you can” but “because we’re Jews.” Her story was about a guy who’d called a guy who’d called a guy who’d given him their number. He was in Spain on business for a few days and wanted to make a Jewish connection. Fair enough. During their call, she invited him to Sabbath dinner. Again, fair enough. But after she did this, she attempted to find out “if he was a decent man, you know – was he married, did he have children…?” and there I am thinking ‘that’s the best measure of decency?’ when she says “but he tells me nothing but then an hour before he arrived, a bouquet of flowers was delivered, so I think, ok, he’s a decent man.”

She tells us that she tried calling some contacts in Israel but none of them had heard of him. This is the equivalent of someone in Melbourne hearing I am from Glasgow and asking if I know his mate Jimmy.

She finishes the story by saying “you know, if it had been a woman I wouldn’t have cared, but because it was a man…” and she pulls that shock-horror-distaste face and with both arms makes that ‘keep-away’ gesture. Uncharitable I know, but that’s when I decided she was a moron.

Still, to play nice we talked about cooking and her kids (though sadly not in the same sentence) and afterwards my mother remarks how nice it is that she and I bonded so well.

Laugh? I nearly atrophied.

And lemme tell you this – nothing flattens your appetite more than a man on a fast spreading his hands across the bounty of the table and saying ‘please, enjoy!’

The day began to end a little better than it started when mum and dad went to the beach and I was left to my own devices, which allowed for two hours laying out on top of the house browning the bits of me that are still pale. Just before they came back, I transferred to the front terrace to read. See, in the evening, about 8, the sun finally slips below the level of the porch, so I sat bathed in early evening warmth, lost in The Algebraist, surrounded by bougainvillea and lavender and with Jimmy Cliff on in the background. All very serene.

Parents returned and as a matter of course, my mum turned down the stereo three points. Note to self, in future, turn the stereo three points louder than desirable, so when she does it, hey presto, perfect volume!

With the sun sitting on the horizon, the clouds all fuchsia and soft grey, I went and poured myself a shandy from the jug in the fridge and as I passed my father in the living room on my way back out the veranda, he said…

“Beer won’t help you lose weight, you know”

Thanks, dad.

Since I got overweight in my late teens, I have had 17 years of having insults supposedly framed as jokes in the misguided – oh sweet Jesus Christ how misguided – belief that I could be nudged, cajoled or just plain shamed into getting thinner. Sadly, it never once occurred that hiding in a large body is a damn sight easier than in a small one, and I think maybe if someone had asked me why as opposed to how much, I might have begun to deal differently. 17 years of hating everything about my body, of having days at a time when I couldn’t get up and get dressed and leave the house because I figured the only thing I was fit to wear was the duvet. 17 years of hating shopping (I wonder if three-way mirrors have been classed yet as a major contributing suicide factor?). 17 years of not being able to look in the mirror, of failing to exert even the smallest control over my body, of being surprised and grateful whenever someone saw me naked without honking up their breakfast or turning away in disgust or insisting on only being able to fuck me through a hole in a sheet or harpooning me. Sounds stupid, I guess, but I hated myself for such a long time. It wasn’t helped by the occasional verbally abusive boyfriend, or a stint in Hong Kong where people came up and poked me in the street, or grabbed me or just pointed and smirked, given what a freak I was compared to a city full of slender teeny Chinese girls.

And after all that, I lost three stone (one more to go, maybe, eventually) and with the weight loss – perhaps more due to the achievement than anything else – came the notion that perhaps I deserved to like myself. These days (the good days) I like shopping. Sometimes I even buy stuff. I can look at myself in a mirror. I haven’t had a day hiding under the duvet in nearly two years. I no longer feel the need to invoke Greenpeace protection before getting naked. And when I look at myself I see an imperfect body – I doubt it will ever be otherwise – but I don’t hate it anymore. I finally exerted some control. And yes I love my food and I love my drink and I have little intention of skimping on either. And yes I have the kind of metabolism that puts on weight just by dreaming about food. But when I did lose some weight, I began to lose the image of me as some gallumphing great clumsy unwieldy heffer, only fanciable in the dark and then after all the other women (and soft, yielding pumpkins) on this world and the next have been evaporated.

Now when I’m a clumsy heffer I have no recourse but to admit it’s vodka and dark stairwells to blame :)

See, the women in my family are mostly a certain shape – short, busty, huge arse, shelving back and wee legs. Dear god why even bother trying?!

Over dessert at lunch, would my dad have turned to my mum, who also hates her shape, and said “hey, cake won’t help you lose weight, you know”. No, of course not. So why is it ok to talk to me like that? The worst of it is that he wasn’t being hurtful. Or vicious or personal or unkind or disappointed or disgusted or any of the other things it felt like. So back out on the veranda I sat feeling angry and humiliated and feeling like a big fat failure, which I’m seriously fucking tired of feeling. After he’d gone away, I not only felt like I did at 19 but cried like it too, upset and furious that the same mind-set is still so accessible. Eventually I put the drink back in the kitchen, untouched, and went for a run. But I didn’t feel like I was running for me, for the endorphin kick or the pleasure of feeling myself get fitter. I felt like the only thing I can possibly achieve by it is for my dad not to think me huge anymore. Like when I first lost the weight, my grandmother said (to my face) “it’s so lovely now to have a pretty granddaughter”.

Can’t recall ever hearing her say that before.

Punchline to this is the conversation that ensues when dad sees the untouched drink in the kitchen…

“why have you left your drink?”

”don’t want it anymore – you put me right off”

“Adele, you’re over-reacting – enjoy it….you can always run it off in the morning. Har har!”

So that’s all right then.

23 July
We went to Lonja for lunch today. Lonja is one of my main treats every time I come down here. It’s a restaurant at Mar Menor on the edge of an inland sea, which I think basically happened when much ocean flooded in to cover an earthquake-made hole. The deck of the restaurant extends to the water, and they do the best seafood. There are always stray kittens sneaking about under the eaves waiting for dropped fish (whether dropped deliberately or not), and lunch there is always an extended venture – several hours sneakily feeding the cats, an open blue sky and expansive sea, an appetite woken and prodded with good white wine and roast almonds, followed up with the juiciest prawns, grilled squid and swordfish, crusty bread and lemons straight from the tree. Yu-hum.

I love being near the ocean. Also, it’s kinda nice to be able to lob the occasional prawn tail back in the water as a warning to all the other prawns just what is gonna happen to them…

Also, on this occasion I saw one of the most disgusting things I am ever going to see. No, really. Now, if you are veggie or hate eating seafood then this is going to be even worse for you…me, I get a little icky with some seafood (assumes a HUGE Sid James grin – there are limits to what I’ll put in my mouth, and anything with suckers or tentacles or antenna or sacs falls into the EEEWWWW category).

When you eat whole prawns, you pull the head off and try to tear out the waste strip which is usually full of black stuff, from along the creature’s back. Then you can peel off the shell and with that usually comes the legs. All very foul. Then what’s left is totally yummy. There was a huge family party at the next table to us and they got a couple of massive shellfish platters delivered as starters. With my usual extraordinary timing, I looked across in time to see the father finish his prawn, then take the discarded head, hold it by the curly wavy stringy feelers, and suck out the entire contents. Brains, eyes, squirty juice and unidentifiable goo. It still makes me go ICK just to think about it :)

It reminded me of an ex who used to eat winkles for breakfast and then expect to be kissed. Yeah. Right. That’s gonna happen. Why don’t you go lick out the hoover nozzle, too, just for added flavour.

Anyway, that aside it was a particularly fine lunch. For some bizarre reason the conversation in the car on the way home turned to sin. I had been (albeit gently) bollocked the day before when – in the company of Catholics – I had mentioned in passing the Catholic church’s occasional tendency to acquire gold and forget to do anything with it other than to have it melted down and decorate some room or other. The subject came up because we were discussing a Church-turned-council-party-venue in a small Spanish town that both they and I (but not my parents) had been to, only they’d never been inside and I had. Many times. In there is a room that looks like a small gold bomb went off inside it as everything – floor, walls, ceiling, picture frames, windows, tables, tiles, you name it, is coated in gold. Stolen gold. You can even read a little booklet about how they stole it. Only they don’t use the word stole. They talk about the Church ‘acquiring’ it. Which was the word I used. Still, a gentle bollocking ensued. I have always been much amused by Dougal’s reference in an episode of Father Ted to “that big art gallery in Rome” when trying to recall a visit to The Vatican.

Back to sin. The personal kind, not the accuse-us-and-we’ll-call-you-a-witch kind. I suggested that with the (granted unlikely) addition of a form of confession, Judaism would be in danger of grinding to a halt, if we were given means of alleviating the guilt. Mum reminded me that there’s always Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement) which traditionally is spent in synagogue, supposedly beating our breast, fasting and praying to God for forgiveness for our many sins. Which in theory we are supposed to recall individually. I think, from a purely personal point of view, the Catholics have it much easier if they only have to remember a week’s worth of sinning at a time. A day quite simply isn’t long enough for me to get through mine. Do we confess every sinful thought? Every impulse? Every fantasy, daydream, flare of un-witnessed temper? I’d need a week for each day, I think. While the intricacies of Atonement were being discussed in the front seats, I ran through the things I reckon I’d have to confess just from the last fortnight. It did me until well after we got home. For the ones I’ve thought, not the ones I’ve actually done. That’s a whole different kettle of filth. But it does beg the question, am I really sorry? Anyone finding themselves the cuckold in an infidelity who has been insulted with “I never meant to hurt you” knows only too well that what is meant is “I never meant to get caught”. Also, on consulting the dictionary I’ve just found that cuckold only refers to men whose wives have committed adultery – is there a female equivalent? I can think of plenty of glib ones, but am genuinely interested…

Still, in a conversation many moons ago with a friend (the circumstances of which I am unable to fully relate given that it will treble my list of sins), we agreed, at least out loud, that neither one of us feels much guilt until caught. I was lying. I wonder if he was. I’m pretty sure that feeling guilt is not the same thing as being sorry. I am often guilty but rarely sorry. Or rather, sorry that something happened, but not sorry that I did it. Which is, of course, selfish and inexcusable.

The thing that my brain got locked into, though (and with no experience whatsoever of Confession) is - are you supposed to confess every impure thought? My fantasy life is precious to me. It passes the time on anonymous bus journeys, in meetings, while I’m staring at a book or a movie, when I wake early and have treasured time to myself, when I walk anywhere – should I feel bad about the ludicrous scenarios, filth, violence and theatrics I allow myself to visualise? Without impure thoughts, I’d spend my time rocking and drooling in a corner, I reckon. With nothing even remotely fun to think about…

Actually, right about now I’m seriously sorry I started this ramble :)

21 July
You know you watch too many horror movies when….the three of us drove out last night to have dinner with friends of my parents and en route passed an everything-store – you know, the kind that can sell you a clockwork mouse and a leaf-blower and possibly also some love beads and a trowel? Anyway, propped up against the front door they had a fantastic and proper pitch-fork. Being in a major agricultural centre, this is hardly surprising, but was I thinking farm-y thoughts? No, I was thinking of all the movies where I’ve seen one stuck into the back of someone’s head.

Dinner was yummy and washed down with silly amounts of red wine, which helped to take the edge off the tour of their new house that we got on arrival. Now, I don’t begrudge them their delight in their new home, but there should really only be so much you can say about tiles and light fittings. It took nearly an hour to be shown round one master bedroom, two guest rooms, two bathrooms a kitchen, a lounge and – and this is the good bit – ten whole minutes stood looking into a dark hall cupboard talking about the increasing rarity of good hoover storage space. After all that, trust me, drinking was the only thing that could help. Still, they turned out to be really nice people so I am just being churlish about the house tour.

Mum had bought them a house-warming present too, which the lady of the house was having difficulty opening and asked her other half to go get some scissors. Which he did. But he walked back across the slippy tiled living room floor with them already on his fingers as if he was cutting something, as he came up behind her to hand them over her shoulder. How fecking dangerous is that?! I had an image in my head that involved the kind of puncture you can’t stick in a bath till it farts and then patch with a handy bit of rubber. Like I said, you know you’ve watched too many horror movies when….

Went for a run this morning and then back to sleep (my prize for getting up at half six is not to have to get up again until 11) and now there’s an estate agent downstairs come to value the house as it’s on the market but we are inviting more agents to try and sell it. Last thing I heard him say as I ran upstairs is “I’m going to be perfectly honest with you….”

Oh yeah? What kind of rubbish estate agent are you?!

Also, I’ve just realised that Michael Marshall has a new book out which I haven’t read and he’s in good credit with me, despite how turgid I found Straw Men to be, so I’m off to buy that once I’m done with the Margaret Atwood thing I’m reading about a 19th Century 15 year old murderess.

I really want to go out onto the upstairs terrace and sunbathe but am loathe to until the estate agent has done his appraisal and gone away – last thing I need is the house particulars written up with the phrase “bikini-clad heffer not included” :)

It's actually so silly hot today that rather than sunbathe in the traditional manner (ie, having to go to the effort of actually turning yourself over) it would be so much easier to be roped to some kind of spit, and have a manservant turn you, occasionally basting you in Factor 8 and dousing the flames when you start to combust. Where is that legion of buff, toned, beautiful, devoted and endlessly horny manservants anyway? Lost in the post along with the perfect man, I suspect. Wouldn't that be awful, if the perfect man was slowly suffocating in a big ol' comedy man-shaped parcel in a sorting office somewhere. Knickers, I bet that's what happened. I bet he's got my marbles with him, too. That would explain a whole lot.

Off to bake what's left of my brain :)

19 July
Before I got here, I was in London to see NIN who ROCKED. First time at the Brixton Academy (such a cool venue) and a great gig. I've wanted to see them for so long and they were superb. We followed that up at the weekend with me and Lara and a girl I know called Ele going through to Glasgow to see Rammstein. Who also ROCKED. They had the best stuff!!!! Mic stands on fire, mad elephant-trunk-stylee flamethrowing headgear, fireworks, loud stuff, hot stuff, flashy stuff and fire, fire, FIRE!!!! I love seeing them live. They are just the best showmen. And not half as ugly as some would have us believe. At least one guitarist was just asking to be spread on toast...although naturally we were there for the music and wouldn't have been caught thinking the band buff and edible. No, no, no. We certainly didn't think that about Trent either. Oh no.

Anyway, my mad rock bubble is about to be burst as I am being taken to see Georgie Fame this weekend. Am considering sneaking something in my pocket and listening to Sehnsucht throught, but am in danger of getting carried away and moshing, which may turn out to be a first at a Georgie Fame gig :)

Anyway, to say it's hot here is ludicrous - I can hear my brain boiling in its own juices, although that is the reason I wanted to come down here at this time of year, so am happy :) There is little to do but eat and read and sleep and drink, which sounds like a holiday to me. In a fit of deranged, heat-induced lunacy, I've been going running at half six in the morning, which leaves me feeling entirely smug. And overheated, shagged out and drenched. Yu-hum. Such a good look.

Mum and I had our first argument today too - I tried to reiterate that I am not a moron and am entirely capable of deciding when it is getting too hot and to go for siesta. She on the other hand has decided to treat me like an idiot because down here "it's a different kind of sun" and I need to be reminded, daily, about the dangers of sunbathing.

Sadly, just when I thought I'd made my point, I realised that I'd missed a bit with the Factor 8 and have indeed burned myself, just a teeny bit. Bugger. Have taken to tanning the back of me until it stops being pink as I absolutely cannot face the 'told you so' response, which will be meted out hourly until my death and possibly a few years beyond. Hahahahaha. Shit.