Back in the saddle

Despite the onset of a funk, which I am calmly putting down to a distinct lack of human contact of late added to the fact that I am discovering I am not as talented as I thought (i.e., I can’t just sit down and write a novel no matter how hard I am staring at the screen), this wasn’t too bad a day.
First, it is Halloween, and I hate Halloween. Being in Spain for Halloween means I don’t have to get involved in the endless debates about costumes (not from Mrs. Ottawacker, I hasten to add) or have to put on a forced smile when opening the doors to pestilent little gobshites looking for a hand out of “candies”). Being in Spain meant I could ignore all that crap.

Or so I thought. Never underestimate the ability of an expat to piss you off. As I turned up for a coffee at my favourite place, I noticed that Hardy’s was going to be closed in preparations for a Halloween party. With singers. And other stuff. Like costumes. I decided against the coffee and went for a walk along the front.

In the end, I turned to Fran for dinner and ended up listening to the party from over the other side of the highway. You might have thought that the incessant traffic would have deadened the sound; no. In the second of two consecutive references to Only Fools and Horses, I can only bring your attention to the present. I sat there, one of only a handful of people, listening to the most abominable speech defect I have ever heard in a singer. It was brilliant. However, I can only assume it was karaoke, because having necked my glass of wine, paid and run over the footbridge to get a better look, “Tony” had been replaced by a middle-woman with peroxide hair, who was singing, and I shit you not, a Vera Lynn song.
Maybe it was her all along. Maybe she could do impressions too.
The writing went better today, primarily because I binned everything I had written and decided to take a new approach. I even storyboarded it.
At 10 o’clock, there was a knock on the door. “The escort service here already?” I thought. “Or maybe it is Michael Caine popped over from Marbella to have a few whiskies and reminisce.” Nope. It was a frigging trick or treater. However, she was Spanish, polite, and smiled. So I gave her the Twix I had been saving for a rainy day, wished her a Happy Halloween (to which, of course, she responded “¿Qué?”) and went for a late night walk. During which, I completely failed to see any ghosts.