A hearty “Good Morning” Negative Soundbyters! If you are crammed up against a sweaty armpit or seething at yet another Southern Fail cancellation (isn’t it interesting that as soon as the weather improves trains are cancelled because of a “lack of train drivers” – anyway) never fear, because while I cannot come to your rescue in a literal sense, I might be able to in a literary sense – all the way from Mallorca in Spain! Yup I am about as far away from the swamp (and those interminable trains) as you could possibly imagine.

Mrs H, Rafe and I are kicking back in a stone villa nestled in the hills just outside Polenca. Rafe is having his morning siesta and Mrs H is dangling her feet in the swimming pool that stretches across the front lawn. It is already hot. It’s not often I am lathering up in factor 50 at eight o clock in the morning but when the Spanish sun and Casper lock horns, there is only going to be one winner.

We made it here without too much fuss. Rafey is becoming a seasoned traveller (third trip on a plane and he isn’t even one yet) and I am becoming a seasoned-traveller-with-a-baby; okay “seasoned” might be a stretch but at least this time I managed to ensure that Rafey’s baby cooler box made it onto the aeroplane. (Our last trip had me looking for the nearest exit – at 30,000 ft – when I broke the news to Mrs H that I had mistakenly left said cooler box attached to his buggy and said buggy was stowed in the hold – ouch!).

The transition to our hire car was much smoother than our last trip to Spain, although Mrs H had to bring out her best raised eyebrow when the senorita explained to us that it was against the hire car company’s policy to insert the car seat into the back of the car. Let’s just say the senorita picked up Mrs H’s vibe pretty sharpish. “Vamos” she cried and soon various senors were peering into the back of the car working out how to affix the car seat. Thankfully it didn’t turn into a “how many Spaniards does it take to…” joke and a few minutes later we were off on our next adventure together.

The villa is pitch perfect; Mrs H was particularly pleased with the pizza oven. I was particularly impressed with how seriously the villa company take fire – and I quote: “Alert All Occupants! Only Tackle Fire If You Feel Able! Otherwise Get Out! Stay Out!” Fire fighting has never been my forte so I am likely to take the latter option although knowing Mrs H she would probably have a craic! It also said that guests should put all valuables in the safety deposit box. I followed these instructions to the letter but on trying to retrieve said possessions it refused to budge. It beeped unhelpfully. The Spanish maintenance guy looked at me quizzically when I explained the problem – “You forget el numeros…qué…ha…ha….ha….” I was like “Dude….” He was like “Qué …?” As I write the safe still remains impenetrable. Urgh!

England play Columbia this evening. I am fortunate that the villa comes equipped with a satellite dish although most of the channels are in German. Thankfully the commentary is not critical in understanding the game. Go England!

And on the hopeful note.

Big Sunny Love to You All.

Hoddy X

Swimming pools.

Who doesn’t have a fond memory involving a swimming pool? – okay if you are a Brit then this might not apply! Most of my youth was spent in my neighbour’s pool. They were a very patient family. No sooner would summer strike than my friends and I would be scaling his wall to gain access to the pool. Marco Polo was one of our favourite games. It was our neighbour’s daughter’s least favourite; if there are two words engrained into her psyche it’s “MARCO…” pause “POLO” pause {sound of thrashing water} pause {giggles} pause “MARCO…” pause {repeat} - all this while she studied for most of her high school exams! Finally my Dad built a pool and the fun-and-frivolity reversed back over the road much to my neighbour – and his daughter’s – relief!

I always enjoyed night time swims. My sister and I would come home from some dingy and smoke-filled pub (in those days smoking indoors was par for the course) and there was no better way to cleanse than jumping into the pool. My parents were thankful that we had grown out of Marco Polo by that age but at least they knew we were home safely.

My move to the UK meant the days of frolicking by the pool soon became a very distant memory. The British weather did its best to try and erase them but summer jaunts to warmer climes meant parties poolside never went the way of the dodo. I wouldn’t say this time round it’s white loungers, buckets of Krystal and scantily clad women (sorry, and men) grooving to the latest Ibiza-style tunes (that said I am not sure it’s ever been that time round) but the villa pool offers something different – an 11 month old in a dinosaur one piece floating in his Jojo Maman BeBe, yellow, inflatable ring and dare I say it the opportunity for an early morning skinny dip. Luckily the villa is relatively secluded but the neighbour does walk his dog just after the sun comes up - as the celestial moon (not the distinction) is going down - but thankfully we haven’t come eye-to-eye yet (in a manner of speaking)!

Taking a dip after a long, sticky day in the swamp just takes the edge off but it’s just not the same if the pool is either indoors or heated or both as is the case with the English equivalent. And even if that was an option – where would I put it? The postage stamp would just about cater for a plunge pool….er….on second thoughts make that an inflatable; we’ve just laid the artificial turf! So no it’s not to be unless we win the lottery – and then it’s skinny-dipping all the way to Spain!

OUT :)

Rafey wanted to say hi:
Xzb3 r

;p

0p;
;
;;
;

Pic of the Week:

Heaven...!