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Sunday Morning Mutterings – Mask Murmurings and Bike Business


It’s been an interesting couple of weeks. Once again I managed to upset a number of cyclists who, after reading the reaction to my witterings, obviously regard me as one of Satan’s minor demons. Or the Marbella version of Jeremy Clarkson. I’m not sure which is worse, to be honest.

In my regular column for the Olive Press http://theolivepress.es , I wrote that there were several signs that life was returning to normal. I found myself in a traffic jam coming onto a roundabout for the first time in three months and for a split second I almost enjoyed the novel experience.

Another sign was that the cyclists were back on the Istan road with a vengeance. Maybe it’s because they were run out of town by an angry population, (a situation I am more than familiar with, trust me), when they crossed over the Istan/Marbella border during lockdown(Istan has since put up some signs to mark its boundaries).

Or maybe it’s because the Lycra brigade has been cooped up inside for months. Whatever the cause, my drive home is somewhat akin to making my way through the peloton of the Tour du France once again.

I then joked that I had found a new way of helping keep the risk of cyclist carried coronavirus at bay. by affixing a large water canon to the roof of the Focus, taking out the rear seats, rigging up an industrial tank of hand sanitizer and blasting the bicycles as I breezed past.

This produced several outraged letters to the editor, with one urging a boycott of the column for “irresponsible journalism”. My reply was that I wasn’t going to be lectured on responsibility by those who practice a sport that traditionally has had a worse reputation for drugs than backstage at a Hawkwind concert.


Just for the record, I haven’t really replaced the rear seats with industrial hand sanitizer and am merrily water cannoning bike riders as I pass. In the same way that I did not attach a snowplough to the front of the 4×4 and two massive lobster pots to the rear to scoop them up and then deposit them at the bottom of the Istan road.


The order by the Junta de Andalucia about the wearing of masks also managed to stoke up a mixed bag of reactions. Once again, social media was awash with various theories about why we have to wear them, ranging from the stoical to the more “alternative” – including that it was an exercise in mind control, the thin end of the New World Order and that the shadowy figures of the Illuminati were about to take over. Or something like that.
Judging from the complete muck up that a number of governments seem to be making of the state of affairs at the moment, I toyed with the idea that maybe being ruled by a bunch of 12 foot tall subterranean lizard overlords with a connection to Prince Phillip might be worth a try. Although I decided to post that.


To top it all off, I went down with my usual summer cold. The 24-hour lurgy was gone as soon as it had arrived, but the house guest decided I was obviously suffering from a combination of COVID, Ebola and the Black Death. She took to wearing a mask around the Casita and covertly spraying me with an essential oil spray every time I stumbled into the kitchen from my sickbed.


And yes, I can hear the Lycra-clad legions laughing at the karma of it all from here!

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

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