IT’S the time of the season that most people living in Spain dread.
The time when that open invitation to ‘come over and stay for a few days’, comes back to haunt you.
Your home suddenly becomes an attractive alternative to your poor rain-drenched northern European friends, huddling in their woad huts (or some such).
Rather than staying at some eye-wateringly expensive hotel in high season, and unable to find a private villa as the Junta de Andalucía has imposed the sort of restrictions, rules and regulations that make storing nuclear waste seem a doddle, they decide to rock up at yours.
The current houseguest has turned into my very own version of Alan Bennett’s Lady in the Van, or a twisted version of Hotel California.
“She could check out any time she likes, but she won’t ever leave”.
Having been the guest cottage for over two years now, however, I have been through the full range of emotions as I realize that nothing short of well placed high explosives will remove her, and I’ve gone through shock, anger and denial, and now find myself in a Zen-like state of acceptance.
Plus the kitchen isn’t so much of a biohazard these days.
As one American guest, who didn’t stay long, famously remarked, ‘You see kids? This is what happens when a man lives alone’.
Previous houseguests who have overstayed their welcome have had to be removed by a variety of methods, including not so subtle hints by friends – mention of gun collections, connections to law enforcement – that sort of thing.
The Ziglet (otherwise known as the oldest goddaughter aka Troll Fodder) is exempt from all of the above by the way.
Due to her ‘on-the-road’ lifestyle, which often entails sleeping in the back of vans on the way to or from gigs, she actually prefers to crash in the smallest space possible.
She’s back again at the end of this month with a friend, and there’s even talk of a teepee in the garden.
If I suddenly look out and see more springing up however…and I definitely draw the line at yurts…
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