Summertime, and the livin’ is easy

Ah August, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways……

Camus done, Gladwell started and Glorious Heresies (not photographed) was indeed – glorious

Exercise, creativity, reading the shit out of stuff, taking better care of myself, a two month health kick.  You know the drill.  So filled with dizzying enthusiasm for a productivity-packed summer vacation was I (again) that I almost completely forgot that I am, in fact, intrinsically lazy.  And like wine.  And food.  And meeting with friends to consume both.  Often.  Especially at this time of year.  And it has been so damn hot!  It’s impossible to do pretty much anything that involves even a modicum of physical exertion, and doesn’t involve consumption – unless you get up at five thirty a.m. or don your lycra after midnight.  And let’s face it, that ain’t going to happen any time soon.  Uurrgghh, so. much. effort.

So here we are approaching the last week of the month, and I have achieved nothing. Maybe except an impressive tan and an extra couple of kilos.  I did however do a little exploring on my doorstep, having relinquished my usual jazz groupie shenanigans.  Almost five years here and I’ve always opted for another European destination in summer, above my adoptive home.  So, first stop was the Costa Brava, in the mountains close to Platja d’Aro, to spend time with one of my oldest friends, her hubby and my nieces  over from Blighty, for a long overdue catch up.  Conversation, giggles, time by the pool (bar), splashing around with the girls, dinner and cocktails (those not with the girls).  Having to return home for work was a massive drag, but kind of lucky as I’d somehow destroyed my back, and classes were with my doctor student who sorted me right out.

Then I hopped over the water to Mallorca to visit someone I barely know, which went about as well as you can imagine….. You win some, you lose some.  We saw a bit of the island before I decided to book myself on a flight home two days earlier than planned, because of my back….. and a stomping hissy fit that La Campbell

River Onyar, Catalunya

would be proud of – him, not me – in the middle of a conversation about the race to The Whitehouse.  I left graciously (probably largely due to being cracked up on pain drugs) with a hug, a thank you gift and an invitation for a return match in BCN and headed to the island capital.  Mallorca is nice, I’ll go back.  I have since however, after I tweeted that I would vote for Sadiq Khan as leader of the Labour Party a gazillion times, been blocked from ALL social media including Instagram, which I didn’t even realise was a thing.  Guess he doesn’t like the mayor of London more than he doesn’t like Hillary Clinton.  That’s life I guess.  *People are strange. 

Back on the mainland I waited for my sis to arrive for a week of panky japes which involved a trip to Girona, gin, beach time, gin, dinner, gin, the Festa Major de Gracia, lots of laughs and roof terraces.  And gin.  And behind all of these lovely summery things, I am as always in August, plunged into the depths of an annual existential crisis.  It becomes longer and harder with each passing year (phnarr).  Thankfully though, you can find a very simple How to Deal with an Existential Crisis (With Pictures) online, for this intensely complicated issue.  So this teamed with the oodles of gorgeousness I’ve shared with loved ones this month has been a hugely welcome distraction.  But one thing I have finally realised this year, the problem is not exclusively connected to being in the company of the creatively gifted and blessed.  Nope.  It would appear that I am more than capable of the feelings of worthlessness, ALL. BY. MYSELF……..  No help needed.

So, you know – winning.

honest passport hunter

This yearly despair of course though, does not at all lend itself well to dipping a toe back into the muddy puddle that is Tinder.  It really, really doesn’t.  (That repetitive emphasis just made me feel like Donald Trump…..)  Eeewww <shudders violently>.  I’d taken a sabbatical from dating since the early part of the year, after having my fill in 2015, but in July as a response to Brexit, I decided to post a new profile stating quite clearly – that I was  looking for a European husband.  They do after all say, that honesty is the best policy.  Straight up, no bullshit; I want to stay in Europe.  But this, as with a lot of what I do, I posted largely to amuse myself, natch. <whispers conspiratorially behind hand>, ‘but you know, if one Euro marriage prospect should come of it, weeeellll, you know….’.  But as a strange twist of fate would have it, this profile attracted more attention than previous ones, go figure, and  I have met a pretty sweet guy.  And now I’m freaking out and wondering if I just have to accept that maybe the fact is: I am actually happier alone and that it’s OK.  Or, am I just panicking that something good will actually transpire.    Questions, questions, questions.  And I have spent the last week trying to figure myself, and this, out.  But this sense of panic is going to take more than a week to understand I think.  Step by step.  

I must admit, a rapid return to work will be a blessed relief from my own internal dialogue, which also apart from questioning my purpose on this planet, includes such ponderings as:
I wonder if Kim Kardashian worries, or is a bit embarrassed, about her bum contouring make-up **messing up the two hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets during sex. 

Why did ‘God’ create cockroaches.

And who, in their right mind eats baby eels.

*I am ‘people’
**That’s got to be a massive ballache for the housekeepers

Roll on the new term……


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