AUTUMN is upon us and it is, as the poet Keats so memorably described it ‘The season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’… as well as being the season of once again being able to find somewhere to park the car.
It’s the time of year that those of us who live here all year round get to breathe a huge sigh of relief as we pack the last of the summer guests off and can finally unwind.
You can visit your favourite restaurant without having to make a reservation and get a drink in your favourite bar without having to queue for 30 minutes.
And the other sure sign that autumn is here is that at the first sign of rain, everyone starts complaining about the weather and in another few weeks ‘que calor’ will have been replaced with ‘que frio!’
Up at the Casita I had a friend visit for a couple of days last week. He’s a bit of an Action Man, having trained Mel Gibson for Braveheart, so we decided to do a bit of hairy-chested macho activities.
The fiend designed a workout session for my legs that still has me walking like John Wayne (ED: I can confirm that) as I write this, but worse was to come when we went kayaking.
At the lake there are rocks that you can dive off, with a drop of about 15 feet to the water.
My first dive was fine, but fatally on my second dive I showed off and didn’t get my legs closed in time. Thankfully my howl of pain was muffled by the water.
I’ve never had any particular paternal urges, but as I applied a bag of ice to the affected area I realised that the possibility of fatherhood was now even further away.
As some of you may know I present a radio show, and often fill in when the proper presenters take holidays. Which is how I ended up with the Breakfast Show a few weeks ago.
All was going well until I played Blurred Lines, one of the hits of the summer.
Now, I haven’t really listened to the lyrics and this was the song that Miley Cyrus infamously ‘twerked’ to.
The next morning I had emails asking if the song was suitable for that time in the morning, and claiming that I was corrupting the nation’s youth over their cornflakes.
‘Job Done’ I thought, as I pulled out a Zappa album. And just for the record, this newspaper encourages responsible twerking.