People assume that life in the mountains of Portugal is somehow exotic and mysterious – a heady blend of cheap vinho, ambling donkeys and a stout woman called Mafalda wandering past with a basket of laundry on her head. Of course at times this may be true but for the most part it is just life, normal and unextraordinary.
My existence for many weeks has been a cyclic routine of building site fun, sofa based atrophy and an intermittent sleep pattern. This may explain my lack of blogging, surfing and indeed hair follicles.
Apparently it is unwise to grumble in these turbulent times of Global financial uncertainty – people are losing their jobs, families are losing their homes and the very fabric of the civilised world is starting to fray and tear beneath our home-darned socks.
So I shall not moan as I drag my aching bones from my bed and head to work once again but it would be nice to spend eternity snogging a babe* on the beach rather than mixing tile cement and grout…
I didn’t surf today.
*for babe read Tango (grrr)