Sunday, 5 August 2007


I don't intend to bore you with the finer points of what it's like looking after a mother whose brain is still sharp as a razor, but whose legs are not receiving the message to move...

I'm going to start stashing away the sleepers now so that if this ever happens to me, it's gonna be That's All Folks!

Gatwick Delay Man has texted me a few times, but apart from not really having the mind for it, I wasn't free when he was and vice versa. Am I bovvered? Not would have been fun to meet up under the Mediterranean moon, but my filial duties are taking precedence just now.

I do feel like I've been kidnapped from my life and dropped into an Old Age Home but at least that's limited to another 9 days, 3 hours, 27 minutes and 39 seconds - not that I'm counting.

The little flirtette with GDM was nothing more than an affirmation of my continued pullability, so in that context, it did the trick.

Marbella has been my second home since the 1960s when my father, a man of great foresight, bought a 3 bedroom 2 bathroom villa on the beach for £2,200. The town was little more than a fishing village back then. We used to fly to Gibraltar and trondle along the two lane pot-holed coast road, passing clusters of little whitewashed houses which glinted in the noon day sun. That's all gone now, replaced by monolithic tower blocks, urbanizations, golf complexes and grand hotels which clutter up the landscape.

Marbella old town still has its Andalucian charm, however, and if you drive just ten minutes up into the hills, you soon return to the real Spain. The great Moorish cities of Sevilla, Granada and Cordoba are only a couple of hours away so one really has the best of both worlds.

This year, August has been sacrificed as far as I'm concerned; no late night shenanigans at Cafe del Mar, no dining under the stars, or romantic walks along the beach. The highlight will be the bullfight next Saturday which I will not miss at any cost. The eponymous son of El Cordobes is fighting - and his father is his manager.

This is the man who stole my virginity back in 1965 and I haven't seen him since. I may need to have a quiet word, though I'm not sure what that word should be...
'Thanks' probably!

I'll return to The Daily Male next blog. Adios for now.

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