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Written on January 1, 2005, and categorized as Secret and Invisible.
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Here (in proper Blue Peter style) is something I prepared earlier:

Malaga Station, 4th April, 2003

Bored now so returned to Etecion Malaga to people watch and drink coffee. Make a text message:

last night I had a peripheral vision. in it u wdnt look at n e thing straight so u kept bumping into things. is this a metaphor or a health msg?

As I text my ex, a beautiful young woman walks intently towards me. She can’t be Spanish, she looks Irish. 2 hours before my train. I think I’m just gonna hug this table and make my coffee last 45 minutes. She’s got a coffee and lit up on the mobile phone, cig in the side of her mouth. God she looks so cool I wish I smoked. Perfect teeth and hair. I sigh and stare across the concourse pursing my lips and running my little finger down the ski-slope under my nose. What is the name for that ? It feels nice with a 2 day growth to resist the downward track.

Txt reply from Max, she’s confused – but who wouldn’t be with a mother who is the anglican Vicar of Glastonbury ? Have decided good looking girl’s teeth are too white so they’ll fall out before she’s 40. Look up and she’s obviously reading my mind and has scurried off, offended, to clean her teeth. Maybe to text her hulking psycho Spanish BF who summoned by her a la Buffy will appear in hellmouth fashion to wreak implausible gothic revenge on me for my insult to his GF’s teeth’s honour.

Shit. Still at least 1 and a half hours before I can board my train. At least I got a good spot, right by the bar, back of the hall, everyone in full view. No surprises. Even the coffee is going predictably cold.

When I got to the airport it was mid-afternoon. I took a taxi (15 EUROS) from the airport and stashed my bag and went for a walk to find the beach. I was a hot/cold day – grey clouds obscuring a hot sun even in April.

As I sat on the stone bench by the nearly deserted sea front, watching the drunks share pot and drink cans exactly like the ones in the city park opposite my London flat, and a group of languid teenages size each other up, ditto, I thought: 50 quid to turn up the temperature and add SEA.

This funny intermediate time, enforced idleness because of the train to Montilla leaving 6 hours after my inbound flight. I manage 3 hours in what is a friendly but quite boring town before heading back to the station. Perhaps this is the root of all creativity – boredom and the escape from it. Anyway, buying the coffee and turning an envelope inside out gives me the right to turn this Cafe into my study. I grab a suggestion leaflet.

“I think they should perform a short song and dance for each order over 5 EUROS. Please contact me as I have the very routine. cafe@junksucks.com”

I fill in all the details accurately including name and address, adding my profession proudly: DOCTOR. Yeah, I’m a doctor. I AM THE DOCTOR OF LURVE. he he… post the slip in the the bright yellow metal box on a stick, discretely…

Excellent, 7.35. Train leaves at 9, still 1/3 of a coffee (now disgustingly cold) left.

Waching a long queue form I wonder if my train will be tedious to board. It’s a terrible indictment of my mind but I have made 2 significant observations since arriving in Spain.

1. Spanish women’s arses are by no means fat. I mean, some are, but I would say, fewer than London. Bang goes the myth of the Latin arse.

2. The Spanish have sparrows, which have all but deserted London.

No connection. Sparrows have tails.

Damn. In a sudden fit of guilt and thirst, I drink the lasty mouthful of coffee. Bugger, Now, if I get more coffee, I’ll be speeding. If I get a beer, I’ll be bad tempered and tired. I’m in a “no-win” zone with only myself to blame. Cafe con Leche,1 EURO. I’m gonna get one.

God the woman serving has a face like a vole eating sherbet but even she has a tidy arse. It must be Spring.

I’m watching a tense couple try not to fall out, as he walks off to make a call and she looks amazed and disgusted. He returns; she remonstrates in an undertone. Nonetheless they are very obvious, she has flame red hair and he gestures like a bad am-dram queen. Drugs, the back of my mind is saying, they are arguing about drugs. It’s Friday night.

Right at the other end of the hall near the platform is the most intriguing girl. She’s smartly dressed with a wheely bag. She’s been here as long as me and looks resigned, bored. There’s a certain aura around her – stillness. Maybe she’s not wating for a train.

Now drama-queen is inside flame-head’s personal space and is flapping his arms like a penguin and smooching. Damn! Even the station cleaner has a nice arse. Maybe if I dwell on this subject, I can generate a fixation. Shit! Maybe coming to Spain has REVEALED a fixation, hidden in London under tiers of work and play, ambition, regret, success and taxes.

Queen and flame-head have made up, she’s putting her hand suggestively in his front pocket and surreptitiously touching him up. She smiles, which is a first. “Listen baby” he’s saying, “Don’t worry about the drugs, love is the drug and I have plenty for you.” Plenty of fucking fat arse, actually, his is enormous. So, hadn’t realised – Spanish male arses = very large. Femal arses = nice and tidy. Mmm. Maybe this information is valuable to underwear manufacturers.

55 minutes to go – half a coffee. I think I’m going to make it. The second coffee is making me optimistic. But I am starting to bite my nails. Intriguing girl has disappeared. She wasn’t waiting for a train! How cool! Because anyone would have mistakenly assumed by her presence on the bench near the platform that she must be! Oh the folly of assumption. Sounds like a Catholic festival. No, that’s the coffee talking.

I’m tempted to chat up the cleaning girl who has a lovely face (as well as a nice arse) but I know no Spanish so it would be comedy value only.

“Hi, I’m from England, you have no idea what I’m saying, I know nothing of the circumstances of your life, but I’m a whimsical geezer, you look nice, let’s get to know each other.”

This amuses me greatly, I smile, but I think I may have inadvertently given a rather suspicious old git the come-on. Look away, scribble, it is not for you, it’s for me, for my (non-existant) children for my (non-existant) wife, I’m writing my (non-existant) 3rd novel…. he’s got the message.

8.15 and there are swallows in the station. What beautiful flight, fast and accomplished. time to pull my bag out of left-luggage. God everyone smokes so much here. I haven’t smoked cigarettes for 20 years but I miss it now. It would go well with my coffee, the author’s pose and my very first heart attack. Ah yes, a new range of tasteless greetings cards: “CONGRATULATIONS on your first Heart Attack”

I can see the cards on the cardio-monitor now…

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