On moving into the villa

Regular readers of Sonic Breakfast might care to know that I’ve now moved into the Spanish villa. A mere seven weeks after crazy dog woman’s leaving date, she has now finally departed. The strong whiff of dog will soon be gone as well.

I’m thinking about this post from the terrace of my villa. Whilst I write, a troop of Spanish people work on cleaning and sorting the accommodation. I feel immense guilt. I think I should be helping in some way, offering cups of tea, strumming tunes on my guitar or being generally convivial. Instead, I silently sit outside like a lord of the manor.  Frankly, although I’ll be paying for their services, it’s an economic exchange that I feel uncomfortable with. 

This morning, the pool was a dark and dingy green. Two big barrels of chlorine expertly administered by Pool man Ed, a Welsh carpet fitter who came here to retire but realised he needed something to do, appear to have done the trick. That and a fair bit of fiddling with the motor, a trick I suspect was used to confound me into thinking that the role of pool technician is not for every Tom, Dick and Harry. 

I broke down in tears on this very terrace barely four days ago. Everything seemed so overwhelming and it has been a long couple of months. Yes, I’m prone to drama but I was absolutely moving into a shithole of a place. I blamed Sarah who could do nothing from England. I shouted at people who were only trying to help me. I looked around and could see no way forward. I could write words about how I felt. But, I couldn’t actually do anything practical. I had no way of turning the green pool blue. To clean the dog hair from this place would have taken me months of hard graft; to fit the new light bulbs or fill in the holes even more time. Some people are born practical and I envy them more and more each day. 

Something beyond magical happened two nights ago, the first night I stayed in this remote space. When I turned the lights off, I was initially puzzled. Something was missing. A dog barked in the distance and then an insect fizzed. I could hear trees swishing in the slight wind. All was black save for a bit of starlight. It didn’t take long to dawn on me as I lay still, quiet and a little bit scared. This is no metropolis – there is no artificial street light, no constant hum from the late night taxis depositing the drinkers home from their last orders. This is like wild camping but under a roof with wifi. I pulled down the fly-guard, opened the window and took a big gulp of air. 

This is my life for the next year. Let the writing of the novel begin.

 

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