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.