SWIM SWAM SWUM...

Is it too late to become a bee keeper? An entomologist? Learn to drive? There's so much I haven't done. Like what? Well, I have never been up the London Eye. I have never been to the Westfield shopping centre. Swum with dolphins. Leapt from a great height with a piece of rope attached to my neck. Put sugar in my tea. You know. The usual. Plant a tree or a bomb and so on. I never really had a so called bucket list. It never occurred to me to write one. The bee keeping bit is starting to bother me. I imagine I will have a near death experience and meet the ancestors looming out from the shadows dramatically telling me to, 'go back, it's not your time. You still haven't seen the Vagina Monologues''.

IT

Hello friends. How are you all?  Well I have been been looking for it everywhere. ''It?'' What do you mean ''it''? Well in this case, ''it'' is my other name. Or should I say names. Most people call me Ann Marie because that is my name but I am also called Anna, Ana, Ana Maria, Ann, Anne, Maria, and so on and so forth, you know, the same name as Santa Ana the one who will bend over backwards if you are in need of a special favour. Yet not a lot of people know that I have these other names. What names? Those other names that are reserved for those dumbass, public nuisance dunces who call me up during my siesta and want to know who they are talking to. Yes that siesta, the one I am or was having now 'cos it's stinking hot outside and everything and everyone is on fooking fire as we speak. Those numbskulls who call me wondering if I would like to participate in a survey on some shit I will never buy cos I have no money to spare on account of the cost of living being sky bloody high and all that. Things like bottled water. Bottled water!! Did you ever think you would drink the stuff? I always give them a piece of my wayward mind I can tell you. So I found them...what a relief. Here they are. Written on the back of a beer mat I was gifted in Tossa de Mar. The names I use when the cold callers call and ask who they are speaking to. Remember, I always tell them they are speaking to me, the owner of the brothel, AKA Adolfa Bonifacio Ecolastica Homobona Buenaventura just before they hang up. 

Spain calling. Everyone's favourite renegade here. Well, it's exhausting and boring when it's stinking hot and you are stuck in town. All I can do is loll about in my smalls while H watches TV or looks at real estate in the other room. Loll about as in lying down spending my time idly and not laughing out loud literally. From time to time H will shout something from the salon, which only reminds me that we have finally integrated. For years if we had anything to say to each other when not in the same room we would stand up and walk a few feet to voice in hushed tones. Now we just bellow out for all to hear. Stuff like, ''well you wanted to live in the tropics'' from him to, ''no I wouldn't like to live in a gated community in Andalucia thank you very much'', from me. Heat and boredom. I've spent hours, years probably, staring into space drifting between a Zen like state and unmitigated anxiety.  I am, and I quote a frame of reference friends and I would say way back in our salad days, ''still not Prime Minister''. This was an ill-suited phrase we flippantly remarked, to gauge whether we were any nearer the goals we had in life while still in our twenties. We knew we were never going to be PM but nevertheless had ambitions to succeed in some great way that might make it all worthwhile. Most of us from that generation are now at the peak of our abilities, but entering our cake and cava days and can't imagine wanting to become the leader of a nation. And yet looking at the latest bunch of contenders in the UK I am now convinced we should have gone for the job. I don't need to be mean but the departing one should have stuck to the day job of being a journalist, instead of thinking it was all going to be as easy as being London mayor. Let's face it, he was only in it for the sex and biscuits. As far as I'm concerned, I can't stand the bastard. He was totally unfit for office but it's obvious where he was coming from. He thought it was all going to be a barrel of laughs at everyone else's expense and he might have got away with it if there hadn't been a pandemic. He now escapes the chaos of an aimless domestic drama taking place on an island stuck out in the Atlantic with a clump of contestants ripping each other apart to become the next British PM. Possessed, maniacal, self pollinating half wits. It won't last. Further developments are expected. More later. 

I have just sat through an episode of PMQs so you don't have to. It seems the greased piglet, Boris ''the cock''Johnson, AKA the dirty ol' hobgoblin aint going anywhere. How unchivalrous of anyone to think he would. As for the others. Look at them, the rotten stinking lot of 'em, trying to sell themselves as Paragons of Virtue. I haven't forgotten any of it!! Keep watching for more of the bullshit merchant extraordinaire.