A New Strife in the Sun – COVID-19… A BRIEF INTERLUDE – The New Normal.

“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 continied…

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A New Strife in the Sun – COVID-19… A BRIEF INTERLUDE – Phase 3… yippee!

Water Fecking Liberty!

“It’s not going to open up any quicker by you staring at it day in day out.”

Ignoring the middle aged voice behind me I look longingly at the enticining cool blue water rippling in the sunlight beneath me. Swaying palm trees complete the oasis and I sigh out loud, brushing at the sweat forming on my brow.


“900 euros”, I mutter under my breath “900 euros a month for an apartment we can only use as a pretty prison.”


I stand on my tiptoes and squint over the boundary at my agile neighbours in their lycra wear, jumping gleefully into their ‘monitored’ wet and wild wonderland and I can feel the injustice of it all encase me like an unwelcome shroud.


“Look over there Marcus, they are allowed in their communal pool so why aren’t we?”

I petulantly kick at one of Brian’s tennis balls which promptly hits a plant pot and swiftly richochets over the wall onto the tendered green below. Brian, who is under the misguided assumption that he is the canine offspring of Peter Parker proceeds to scale the wall in persuit of his favourite toy but promptly forgets his rescue mission after he spots a few stray digestive crumbs nestling underneath the wilting Aloe Vera.
‘Well I’m contacting the owner’s son , he’s already made us pay an extra 270 euros as a penalty because we couldn’t move in on the day he wanted us to during lock down PLUS he’s got two months deposit, a months rent and the months agency fee. We could have had 2 weeks at Universal Studios for that price plus all the Butter Beer we could stomach in Diagon alley.


I can feel my last few apathetic hormones bristling internally at the insanity of it all. Come back 2019, all is forgiven.


“Worse things happen mum, people are rioting all over London,” yells an online schooled voice, “Can I have some cereal?”
“I told you to get it before the class started,” I shout back into the makeshift Covid classroom.


Any voice of reason is not welcome when I’m having a full on meltdown and I stomp back into the lounge to throw myself into the arms of Piers ‘ranty’ Morgan for an hour.

As a fully-fledged control freak I’m finding communicating with the Spanish landlord’s son an arduous task. On moving into the rental apartment we had anticipated and agreed upon the removal and disposal of a giant piece of mahogany furniture which resembled something from Mr Sowerbury’s parlor blocking 90% of the sunlight from the lounge. On arrival this monstrosity was still firmly in situ so we had to spend the next 3 days dismantling it and painting the bright yellow wall behind it. Also 2 large padlocks held the patio doors closed and the old lady who owned the flat didn’t have a clue where the keys were so they had to be drilled off before we could breathe in the outside air.


“Do you want to go across the road to the pub for lunch? He’s got Stroganoff on today?”

I lower my chin and shake my head. I’d eaten enough food this year to carry me into 2021. My birthday had been the previous week and I had celebrated my 53rd year by trying to give myself gout from consuming the 3 birthday cakes that friends had brought over to celebrate the fact we were allowed back into each other’s homes and lives.


Peeling my bottom lip off the sofa I reluctantly wander out into the hallway only to see a piece of paper being slipped under the front door. Bending creakily down to pick it up I gaze blankly at the Spanish writing adorning the crisp white sheet and my mouth suddenly drops. Certain words jump out at me and the blood that has been slowly simmering all morning reaches boiling point.


“Don’t go making any plans this Thursday evening,” I yell to the coffee-preparing adult form in the kitchen, “there’s a meeting taking place by the ‘terminally redundant’ pool for all the residents. Apparently they are going to decide whether the pool can open again… THIS YEAR!!!!” [Insert Maniacal Laughter]


With shaking hands I place the slip of paper on the sideboard and walk back out onto the balcony.


“I’m going in that bloody pool this weekend, come hell or high water. The cocoon brigade can go take up residence elsewhere. Neptune’s apprentice ain’t for turning.”

To be continued… The New Normal

If you enjoy reading the ongoing story of our relocation you can now BUY ME A COFFEE by following the underlined link!

IF YOU MISSED THE BEGINNING OF OUR TALE – BACK TO DAY 1

To receive an email as soon as a new episode is uploaded, simply visit the HOME PAGE and subscribe at the bottom.

Click HERE to read all about our relocation to Spain

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