Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Monday, 30 May 2016
At midnight tonight we will be in Malaga. At 8.00 am tomorrow morning, the builders start work on the flat above ours.
It has taken me about three minutes to write the above sentence, because I have discovered that the old Safari browser gets rid of the problems with blogging I have been experiencing in Chrome, but it seems to have a completely different word-processing system. The cursor does not give you a clue about what it is going to do next. Oh well.
My ambition for this holiday is that it is going to be relaxing - unlike Rome - so you can imagine how I felt when H.I. said, "How far is Cadiz from Malaga?" I promised to check on the map, hoping it would be the other side of the country, and it is. It would be quicker to go to Morocco. I don't even want a half hour journey out of town. To hell with any culture that doesn't involve an ancient wine bar. This cursor keeps disappearing and reappearing where you don't expect it to.
Talking of which, there is one bar - the oldest in Malaga - which I intend being a regular at for the time we are there. It has various little nooks and courtyards - one with a fountain - connected by corridors busy with the bustle of serving waiters.
Some of the walls are covered in signed, framed photographs of celebrities, some Spanish and some international. A few years ago, Tony Blair arrived unannounced and brought with him a pre-prepared, signed photograph of himself, beaming his trade-mark, lop-sided, wonky-toothed, one eye bigger than the other, perfidious smile, and the waiters made a great show of hanging it in a conspicuous place on the main wall.
As soon as the Blairs had gone, the picture was unceremoniously taken down and - hopefully - put in the dustbin. Everyone cheered, apparently.