Paul sat in the verdant garden of an old Cantabrian house which had obviously been transformed into a knocking shop for middle ranking coppers and dodgy MPs. As he watched Andrew smoke a cigarette he took a long, deep breath. In. Pause. And then out. Just as he’d read how to do in the countless self-help books he’d read and re-read over countless unhelpful years. It made absolutely no difference. He was still pissed off after being snubbed by a couple in white linen, quite obviously unmarried, who had both sneered at his apparel whilst conducting an insidious affair over a bowl of green olives. They’d not even given him a nod as he bade them Buenos Tardes, both far too busy betraying their kids and their partners and whispering their sweet somethings. Nothing! Not even a slight smile. Paul didn’t care. Much! After all, he had just driven nearly halfway across Spain, lost he and Andrew’s passports,(allegedly!), driven back the other way, sorted the emergency travel documents which were now needed and then raced back across The Iberian Peninsula. Carmen and Carlos conducting their sordid little liaison behind a Mimosa, minus manners, were certainly not going to prove the proverbial last straw that broke his donkey’s back. Paul was far too determined to get back to Blighty without any more hitches – so any rudeness from some unhitched blighters was easy to ignore. Besides, he and Andrew’s journey […]
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