Fig season has just finished as I write, which means for the past couple of weeks I’ve been enjoying breakfast on my lakeside terrace with fresh fruit plucked straight from the tree.
Before you all start to get romantic visions of my pastoral lifestyle, however, it’s best to note that the fig picking is best first thing in the morning, otherwise you end up fighting a losing battle against the residential wasp population. It is also a good idea to have a quick look around to make sure there are no early morning fishermen or kayakers in the vicinity. Stumbling around in shorts that you have just thrown on is never a good look and, as I have normally had just the one cup of coffee – saving the rest for breakfast – I am certainly in no mood to make pleasant conversation.
The other golden rule is to take your footwear off before you head back into the kitchen, or back to bed. Otherwise you run the risk of depositing squashed figs on the floor. If you don’t pick the discarded fruit up quickly enough, you run the risk of attracting enough insects, assorted bugs and crawlies that will make your kitchen look like a scene from a Pixar animation.
I also lost a couple of kilos in the first week of August. No, it has nothing to do with the cleansing properties of figs. The weight loss came as a result of standing in the supermarket queue as the newly arrived Madrileños did their traditional ‘first weekend of August’ shop. With multiple shopping trollies piled high with every considerable provision known, I pondered that Scott of the Antarctic probably took less stuff with him.
I would have swapped places with the doomed explorer as the heat rose and my beard became ridiculously itchy under the mask. The thought of having to endure this all summer was too much. I grabbed a packet of razors and once back at the Casita quickly took my beard off.
Who would have thought that latest victim of Covid-19 would be my facial hair?
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