Not Linguine

A back blip today as yesterday was taken up with chores, favours, taxi services and devotion to the Monarch.

The day started much as Sunday had left off, dull grainy wettish. In the spirit of eternal optimism in which I removed the protective carapace from Jessica, I struggled with her black canvas rain hood which has more straps and buckles than a 19th c lunatics night attire. After breaking three fingernails and ending up with a contraption that resembled an obese bosun's sagging hammock, I reckoned that would be protection enough and embarked on my journey to drum the wealth and subtlety of the English language into my MBA level students.

Our conversation as always wandered, from mountain biking to Hongdou and thence to Joseph Rowantree, the Quakers, funding of pensions at state level, removal of white asbestos from demolition sites, Catalan independence and why Scotland is so apprehensive about taking control of it's own destiny. Amazing where you can go with the past simple.

At lunch time I did my good deed for the day, accompanying Nat my friend and neighbourhood B&B keeper to the airport to pick up a guest who was coming for a three day horse safari to the high mountains. Nat is a lovely guy, who speaks no English, and insists on speaking to me in Spanish although I beg him to speak Catalan as at least I will understand about 25%.

We picked up the guest, a lady from Galway, who has no Spanish either. Hurtled back to Serinya and I did my bellboy impression as I explained the workings of the B&B. Nat then threw me a wobbly when he revealed a newly installed jaccuzzi, and proceeded to unleash a flow of Spanish whilst twirling knobs and making gestures regarding discarding elements of clothing, which put poor Bernadette into a state of bemused trepidation. I managed to grasp that he would put on the heater, and then remove the cover, and that in the meantime he would prepare a light lunch. At this point I withdrew, having visions of the poor lamb from Galway being served a doorstop of a sandwich, in the jacuzzi, whilst Nat struggled out of his shirt. (If my translation had been sufficiently incomprehensible )

In the afternoon I picked up J from his maths tutor (he approaches his exams with the fervour of a jesuit flaying himself with a scourge of thorns) and realised I had no blip, We hied to Pla d'Espolla where I hoped the recent downpour would have left a tranquil lake with dragonflies playing and photogenic water plants, but alas it was as arid as a Yorkshireman's wallet. J managed to find this rather attractive mossy lichen and that became my blip. It looks edible, in fact very appetising, but no one was game enough to let me experiment.

The evening was spent despairing at the lack of imagination of the organisers of the Julibee concert, whose acts in the main looked as though they were extras in a remake of the Great Escape set in a geriatric home. As if the octogenarian singers were not bad enough the whole show was ruined by unfunny comedians making unfunny not quite off the cuff remarks. It really was cringe making but car crash TV which made you determined not to miss one awful minute.( Rolf Harris particularly was so sycophantic that it made you S Q U I R M squirm). HRH the heid bummer showed impeccable taste by arriving late, switching off her hearing aid and clapping completely randomly. HRH Hubby did the wise thing and booked into a rest home for the terminally bewildered where he hunkered down with a large scotch, a back copy of National Geographic with the Samoan lady dancers on the cover and faked a bladder infection.

And that dear reader is why I have not blipped until this morning.