“You’re going to break that keyboard if you bang it any harder, I thought we were going down to the pool that you so desperately wanted open? Are you listening? Get off bloody Facebook!”
I hold my fingers up to silence my husband as I’m currently in an online argument with an affluent pensioner (seated no doubt in their mortgage free ivory tower) who is insistent that we are all better off without tourism.
Now, those who have followed my blog since 2018 will know that we moved here with just enough money to buy ourselves a little flat in Fuengirola outright and have a few thousand left in the bank account to spend on wine and albondigas.
“Have you got sunstroke?” I hear you cry? “A few thousand for a family of 3 and a hungry hound?” “Have you forgotten to take your meds?” “Has someone replaced your HRT with Smarties?” “A few grand and no job?” “Es loco!!”
But here’s the thing faithful reader, my husband did have a job, a contracted one at the Salon Varietes Theatre and was beyond excited to have the career of his dreams and a regular income here but as you well know, sometimes our happy slumber turns into a world without light and almost one year later to the day, through no fault of his own he was made redundant and was forced to exit stage left.
This series of events sent my husband into a downward spiral, a feeling many are experiencing now, and he would spend days in bed and unable to face the world, the breadwinner without a crust to feed us.
Now as you know I’m a Northerner, my bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired. Nurse Ratchet looks like Florence Nightingale in comparison. My knee jerk reaction was to yell ‘get up, get out, get on with it’ which probably didn’t help nor gain me any future foot rubs; but after a week of my banging the mop against the door and playing Guns & Roses at full volume, he finally arose, bearded, jaded and in the need of a pint of Nescafé.
As a fully qualified electrical technician in the UK (electrical estimator and project manager, I stand corrected) he dusted off his pliars and resumed the work he’d left behind 20 years ago along with the grey skies and life went on.
I attempted to add butter to the warburtons whenever the opportunity arose but with our meagre savings obliterated, we had no choice but to sell our home and move into rented accommodation. But life goes on…that was yesterday’s news.
So here we are, almost a 100 days on from day one of isolation, a ‘new’ normal is upon the horizon. The government has tried to keep our heads above sea level, all of us under pension age treading water until tourism resumes and our new life in the sun can resume, mine included.
A voice breaks through my reverie. “Are you coming for a swim or not? I’m stood here like a right tw*t in my Speedo’s. Oh and the sparrows you keep feeding have multiplied are all sat on the oven waiting for breakfast. There was 5 at last count. One was sat on Brian’s head chirping away, I don’t think he even noticed to be fair, too busy wondering if he could blend into the feathered ensemble.”
I close the laptop and look up at the blue sky. Today is Monday the 22nd of June and tourism has been allowed to resume, albeit tentatively for the economy, it has no choice but to do so.
Holiday makers with factor 50 will return because everyone wants and deserves some sunshine in their lives. The local bar owners will dust off their shutters (but only if the landlords have been understanding) and happily pour you a larger than average measure with a relieved smile. Hotels will sweep away the dust sheets and shops will awaken tills with a flourish and iron out the creases as life resumes its new normal.
But…all this is only possible if you return to us. Climb down from your mountain top retreats and spend a bit of your hard earned pension on a tapas or two. Fly the skies in your masks and sit on our beaches at a respectable distance. Don’t let this horrendous virus dictate your lives.
I stretch my arms and yawn. My husband has grown tired of waiting and has fallen asleep on the sofa, towel wrapped around his tanned waist. A female sparrow suddenly flies into the lounge and lands on the coffee table, looking at me with motherly impatience.
“Ok, ok I’m coming. You have mouths to feed too” and I arise with my tiny companion, one on foot, the other on wings, both trying to ensue their family is fed; all of us trying to do our best in this uncertain world.
So… on that note, I have added a ‘Buy me a coffee’ button to my blog.
To ensure me and my feathered friends are fed please press on the button and donate. It’s only a few euros but it will ensure our tales are told and fat balls are buttered.
Finally my friends, be safe, be careful and, most importantly, be here because without you Covid-19 wins and remember, the only thing worse than a warm beer is a smug virus.
To be continued… Episode 41
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