The Remains of the Day

Just 4 hours. That's all I wanted, just 4 hours.


I have been so busy this week, not a second to spare, and work hampered by the inept non service of Parcels2go and our missing box...who could know sending one thing from one address to another could prove so futile. Still missing in action, by the way, for anyone following the saga...

A poorly cat too, we knew Fluffy was on her last paws this week, we have had her a good 5 years or so, since the idiot Cádiar Englishman left her and her sister - now deceased - behind, when he packed up and left for foggier climes....Karma, Carol, Karma....oommmmm

 Both white Persians, Fluffy got the stunning long hair and tail that Basil Brush would be jealous of, a stunner in looks and personality, especially compared with the bundle of evil sharpness we brought with us, known affectionately as Cleo.

Earlier this week, Luna came to say goodbye, our street dog who is off to a better life in Blighty today, besos Luna, we wish you well. There were tears and fears, but we know she's onto something good, thanks to the good folk at Lost Paws of the Alpujarras.

Thinking we'd support them at their rastro yesterday on the coast, down at Castell del Ferro. Just as we got there, we filled up with fuel, the Agip garage guy does it for you, you just say how much and which one. *Ominous instruction: Remember that line..

We nabbed a few bargains at the rastro, and headed to the beach to sit and read for a bit. I needed half an hour R&R after the crazy week. Like a sharp edged pebble, I occasionally need rounding off' to beach standards, with a few rays of sunshine and the sound of the surf.


Then a call from the Inbetweeners at home:
 Fluffy isn't good, she's breathing funny, what'll we do?
Just make her comfortable, we'll be there soon.

Half an hour later, another call:
She's choking, what'll we do?
She'll be grand, leave her alone.

Another half an hour:
She's really Not Good.

Okay, just having this one little tapa because we're starving, we're on our way...

10 minutes later:

She's dead. We think.

Shit.

Back in the car. Turned the key. Nada.

Engine rolls over, sounds weaker by the second. Drops dead.

Stan said, Oh Fiddlesticks....not really. Something like that.

We called the insurance, they sent the Grua, he loaded the car, we got in his cab, he looked a little miffed at the distraction from an afternoon's fishing and also not unlike Nigel Mansell. Warning bells started to ring.

We drove, nay, sped,  and practically, well, flew up the Motorway of Death, narrowly missing the Mediterranean - Who put it there? - with me squeaking: Joder, I thought the GP today was in Japan... on every missed corner.

We arrived at Albondon, Nigel rolled the car off, rolled us out onto the tarmac and with a cheery wave and a Hasta Luego - not on your Nelly - drove home to his fishing rod and Mama's late lunch.

A quick call to a friend and neighbour....and Saint Pedro, Peter Roberts to you, pulled up with his silver chariot, pronounced PETROL had possibly been added to the car and not DIESEL: More cries of fiddlesticks from Stan, and another large bill to look forward to.

 We climbed aboard and Pete kindly ferried us home to the very sad kids, a large Gin or three and a dead cat.

Don't you just love weekends off?

Adios Fluffycat, we'll miss you.