Another family holiday in Andalusia, somewhere up in the hills of suburban Malaga. We've blagged a swish apartment with a private pool. On a clear day, if you hang by your toes over the balcony, you can see the sea.
The pool is clear and blue. Twenty two metres, a dyscalculic's nightmare. Unless I decide how far I'm gonna swim in advance I have no clue as to how many many lengths it will take to get there when I decide. I count my swims in sets of 10. Fifty one lengths seems to be the swim of choice.
The lifeguard is very sweet but a little over zealous, he must be bored. He earns €25 for a 10 hour day but considers himself lucky to have a job. The unemployment rate for under 25s in Spain is about 60%, so there's a long queue of people to take his job.
Rosita manages to pull me in to the pool fully clothed. How she howls and screams. Apparently she's getting me back for a pushing her in 15 years ago. I like that, I deserve it, a pool revenge comedy. 'No camisettas in la piscina,' frowns the lifeguard.
The local beach is narrow with grey sand. The sea is cold, I mean really cold, it's like the Hampstead ponds at the end of May. 'Perfect,' I tease my son. 'I think there's something wrong with you', he replies. Apparently this isn't the Mediterranean any more.
I spend my evenings running in the hills, cooking big fish and playing parchesi. I'm reading 'The Old Patagonian Express' by Paul Theroux, inspiring stuff.
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The lifeguard is very sweet but a little over zealous, he must be bored. He earns €25 for a 10 hour day but considers himself lucky to have a job. The unemployment rate for under 25s in Spain is about 60%, so there's a long queue of people to take his job.
Rosita manages to pull me in to the pool fully clothed. How she howls and screams. Apparently she's getting me back for a pushing her in 15 years ago. I like that, I deserve it, a pool revenge comedy. 'No camisettas in la piscina,' frowns the lifeguard.
The local beach is narrow with grey sand. The sea is cold, I mean really cold, it's like the Hampstead ponds at the end of May. 'Perfect,' I tease my son. 'I think there's something wrong with you', he replies. Apparently this isn't the Mediterranean any more.
I spend my evenings running in the hills, cooking big fish and playing parchesi. I'm reading 'The Old Patagonian Express' by Paul Theroux, inspiring stuff.