I came across this rather intriguing sign when I was out shopping for bread in Spain a few days ago. I hope nobody noticed me taking a photo with my mobile phone. People might have thought I was a bit of a bimbo…

It was almost as good as a flying dream; last night I dreamed I had a baby. Not that it is uncommon for me to have baby dreams, but usually my baby dreams are about a little James, my son. This time it was a tiny girl. I didn’t give birth to her – she wasn’t mine in that sense – a woman came to me and handed me a baby girl of of about two days old.

“She’s yours,” the woman said and she left.

I took the dark-haired little mite and put her up to my shoulder. She snuggled into my neck and made those sweet new baby noises, almost as if she was talking to me. I patted her back and smelt her hair, her skin… her newness. It felt like she was mine and I felt so happy and in love with her.

Shortly after I awoke with these feelings of love, Chris entered the bedroom with a nice cup of tea for each of us. He got back into bed and we both sat up for tea and a chat. Chris had a lovely smile on his face.

“I had such a good dream last night,” he began excitedly. “I won a prize on the Internet – one of those ‘You are the millionth visitor’ type of things – and I had to go to London to collect my prize. I was so thrilled. And when I got there it was so exciting and strange. You’ll never believe what my prize was…”

“A million pounds,” I guessed.

“No, it’s weirder than that. I had won YOU! You were wearing a long evening dress (not one of yours) and you were standing inside something like a shower enclosure, and the curtain went back, and there you were – my prize! That was the end of my dream but I woke up feeling so good.”

I’m not sure what it all means, if anything; I do have three dear step-daughters who I love as my own; and is it possible to be a dream girl after sixteen years of marriage? Whatever the reasons for our dreams, we were both extremely happy as we flew down the stairs to breakfast.

The moment I woke up this morning I knew that I was okay; my cold, allergy,or whatever it was had gone, which was just as well because I was tired of sneezing, and my nose was red and sore.

A Spanish friend of ours (my niece’s boyfriend actually) came around to see us, bringing with him a typical Spanish breakfast of fresh bread, tomatoes, cheese and prosciutto (delicious, especially so because he prepared it), and we had such a good time sitting around doing nothing but chatting and eating that the day disappeared – the only one of us who had any exercise was our elderly neighbour, Alan, who went out for his constitutional, up the steep winding slope to the town centre and back.

By the evening we had almost given in to the lethargy and nearly succumbed to staying in.

“I don’t mind not going out to that Flamenco bar,” I said to Chris, hoping that he didn’t want to go out either.

“I don’t really want to go out either,” Chris picked up my lead. (I had a feeling I could count on him.)

“What about you, Mary – how do you feel about going out?” I asked.

“I’d be happy to stay in and go to bed early,” answered Mary.

“What about you, Geoff?” I turned to my brother-in-law.

“Whatever you like,” he said very agreeably.

Alan is a tad hard of hearing and had missed the conversation thus far; I called out:

“And how do you feel about going out to the Flamenco bar Alan? Would you prefer to stay in and get an early night if we’re to be up early to go to La Alhambra tomorrow?”

“Oh, I would love to go if that’s what all the rest of you want to do,” he replied.

So we all smiled and nodded, and we roused ourselves from our laziness, and we spruced ourselves up to go out after all.

Some hours later, slightly before midnight, we stepped out onto the street outside the Flamenco bar – or rather, I should say we danced out onto the street – and Mary and I clapped loudly, stamping our feet at the same time. Just at that moment an African couple walked by. They looked at us, laughed and shouted:

“Ole!”

“Ole!” we said back, and we carried on dancing.

And now it is time for bed. We have to be up early in the morning. I am so glad that Alan wanted to go out. It’s so good to feel well.

“Are you sure that this is steak?” I asked Chris as I took the thin piece of red meat out of its wrapping.

“Well it had a picture of a cow on the front and it is red,” he said defensively, “and it is marinated – that may be what you’re picking up.”

The sliver of meat seemed hardly thick enough to be called a chunk, a slab, a fillet, a hunk, or any word you might associate with a juicy steak. I sprinkled it with salt and garlic, and popped it into the hot pan with the fried onion. It didn’t exactly sizzle, nor did it go brown, but I turned it over as per usual. It smelt nice but it looked peculiar.

“Surely Spanish people are not so different from us,” I thought, “What do they do with all the bulls after bullfights?”

It seemed unlikely to me that anyone would regard the odd bit of meat in the pan as a hearty steak. But what do I know? Although it did not brown, I guessed the steak was done, and I dared not overcook such a thin piece of meat. Just before taking it out of the pan I ran a sharp knife down the middle to cut it in half (Chris and I often share one piece, especially when it comes to lunches and snack meals).

I had to laugh; no, it wasn’t horse meat, and it wasn’t still alive or anything gruesome like that… Simply, it was layers of thinly sliced, already roasted beef and I had merely heated it up! Nevertheless, it tasted quite nice, if a bit salty, but there is no denying that it was a touch disappointing because it wasn’t actually steak. One day we really must learn a few basic words of Spanish, if only to avoid making silly misteaks.

I am still sneezing and my brother-in-law is still telling jokes; on the basis that you would, undoubtedly, prefer to hear a joke than to have detailed health updates, I shall tell you about the vicar’s new teeth.

The vicar’s new set of false teeth proved to be particularly uncomfortable at first, so much so that the poor man found it impossible to give his Sunday sermon the usual hour and a half, which the parishioners had come to expect. They were amazed, and somewhat pleased, that the vicar rounded off his short discourse after only five minutes.

On the following Sunday the vicar was still having difficulties with his teeth but the swelling of his gums had subsided a little and he was able to persevere and give a sermon of twelve minutes and thirty seconds duration. Unaware of the vicar’s new teeth, and the problems he was having with them, the congregation were perplexed as to the reason for their vicar’s change in style and length of delivery of his sermons.

A week later the vicar was back to his usual form, and moreso. He talked incessantly; he appeared not to pause even to take breath; after three exhausting hours the verger, taking pity on the congregation, and fearing that there was something amiss with the vicar, discreetly found Mr Wilson (one of the ushers) and together they approached the pulpit and led the vicar away. The congregation marvelled at the strange events. One person whispered rather loudly for the benefit of all, “That must have been the longest sentence in history!” and a titter went around the church.

A week on the vicar, who was an earnest man, thought he ought to explain his odd behaviour to his flock:

“Please accept my apologies for the peculiar sermons of late, he began, “You see, I was rather shy to tell you that I have recently had to come to terms with wearing false teeth, which were difficult to get used to as well as being very painful – hence the uncommonly short sermons…”

“What about last week?” someone (probably the same one who mentioned the “longest sentence in history”) called out from the back rows.

“Oh yes, that,” said the vicar, “I’m afraid I was in such a hurry that morning that I didn’t notice, and popped in the wrong set inadvertently – they were my wife’s!”

Obviously, this is a man’s joke. Sorry girls.

I am referring to my cold, of course. Things have got worse rather than better and I have spent the whole day sneezing with incredible force, so much so that I was forced to stay in and refrain from doing any helpful things…like cooking. At one point, when the others were all in the kitchen and I offered  to help cook lunch, four pairs of eyes looked aghast at me in the doorway.

“Certainly not,” said three of them together.

“We don’t want your germs,” added our friend  Alan with a laugh.

“Okay,” I said from my safe distance and they all looked relieved.

I sneezed my way throughout whilst reading “The Midwich Cuckoos” (the chosen book for discussion at our next bookworm meeting); I sneezed my way through a long and particularly unsatisfying game of Scrabble; and I sneezed, snivelled and cried through the brilliant film, “Death of a Salesman”, written by Arthur Miller, and starring Dustin Hoffman (still keep crying every time I think about it, even now as I write). In fact, even at this very moment I am writing my blog in between bouts of sneezes and it is taking an age to complete… and I am so tired from all the sneezing all day long… and the late night last night.

I am sat here in bed all on my own. Where is Chris? Well, luckily for him we have two spare bedrooms in our beautiful Spanish villa we are renting; before retiring to one of them Chris was about to give me a kiss goodnight when, observing a gigantic sneeze welling up in me, he thought better it and blew me a kiss instead. I didn’t blame him – the force of the ensuing sneeze would have surely sent him flying backwards out through the bedroom door!

I thought it was an allergy, it could be a cold, or it might be both; whatever it is, I haven’t been feeling too well. Last night I even considered bowing out of attending the Flamenco concert that was booked as a birthday treat for me but I had been looking forward to it so I wrapped up warm and braved the cold night air (it felt nearly as cold as home yesterday).

Sat here in bed this morning, snivelling and sniffing away, it’s hard to believe that for two hours last night I was so enthralled by Tomas Garcia, the “guitarra flamenca” virtuouso, that all signs of my cold vanished. I would love to tell you all about the  dancer who captivated our hearts as she played the part of a doll on top of a music box; or the beautiful and soulful singer whose voice was enriched by the perfectly matching tone of the maestro; or the drummers, or the clapping, or the standing ovation and the calls for an encore; or the modest acceptance of the audience’s rapturous appreciation… And I would love to tell you more about how brilliantly Tomas Garcia played and how you would hardly even notice that he has only one hand… But I can’t tell you because the magic cure lasted only as long as the magical concert and now I am sick again; I’m like the dancing doll on a music box – it seems that I come to life when I hear the Spanish guitar…

My idea of a perfect holiday is plenty of cycling, swimming and walking; even a conservation holiday (dry stone-walling etc….) sounds great to me. The thought of spending hours sitting around doing nothing or sitting in a car for most of the day isn’t my idea of fun. I like being active. So this morning when Chris asked me what I would like to do today I didn’t hesitate, I said, “If I had my way I would go for a long walk.”

Over breakfast (bran flakes, in my case – still  dieting, even on holiday) we decided on our action plan; our dear friend, Alan, who is older but sprightly, did not feel up to mountain climbing (well, walking up a mountain), hence he opted to stay back at the fort while we younger ones agreed to look for a famous spring up in the mountain, in the Parque Natural above Nerja. It would make a change from the gorge walk which we know quite well from past expeditions.

We set off after breakfast, at about one in the afternoon (well we are on holidays, and we did have a spot of housework to do too); I put on my trusty little pink knapsack (with “COOL ONE” printed on the front, which tickles my fancy because either it’s true or it’s ironic, rather nice either way) filled with drinks, sandwiches, fruit and sunscreen.

A couple of hours later Mary, my lovely sister, asked the time. Geoff, her husband, said “Three o’clock”.

“Is that all?” Mary asked, “It feels like we’ve been walking for much longer.”

“That’s just because it’s all uphill,” I said, “I’m sure we’ll be there soon.”

“How many miles have we been so far?” Mary asked.

“About two,” the men answered within seconds of one another.

“That can’t be right, it feels much more like five miles,” Mary insisted.

Time passed and the dirt track mountain path wound on and on, ever upward. Young chaps with tubes attached to their mouths (we thought it was oxygen!) rode manfully on mountain bikes, passing us easily on the way up.

“What time is it Geoff?” Mary asked again.

“Twenty minutes past three.”

“How long is it since I asked before?”

“Twenty minutes,” said Geoff.

“It can’t be! Are you sure?”

A little further on we came to a signpost informing us that it was only another two kilometres to the recreation ground. Another mountain top loomed above us from behind the trees.

“If it’s up there I’m not going a step further,” Mary looked fed up.

“Neither am I,” I agreed supportively.

“Don’t be ridiculous, that’s another mountain,” Geoff laughed.

Up on the recreation ground we finished our picnic lunch (as you know we were running later than usual today); we also met a Polish girl who was dying of thirst and required our help to search the area for a water tap, which Mary managed to do, and we felt very glad that we had been there to aid the girl – it made our walk so much more meaningful. We didn’t make it to the famous spring – we reckoned that, as there was no water in the river after the dry summer, there probably wasn’t any water in the spring either, and it was another walk….and it was getting late…the sun would be going down soon…

We made it back around six this evening. Alan had been on a long, uphill walk too – he went into Nerja on his own and met some interesting Norwegians who, like he, had stopped to take a breather on the uphill path. Alan suggested we should put on some music to have with our glasses of wine and Chris found an orchestral compilation of classic pop songs. The first song began to play and we all laughed – it was “A long and winding road”, written by the Beatles.

We were in the Lidl store in Nerja just a few minutes ago, and I was standing behind a gentleman in the checkout queue when I heard him answer his wife, “I don’t know”. My immediate reaction, after noting that he spoke to his wife in English with a German accent (and thinking it odd but clever), was to sing aloud the rest of the line to the famous old hit song “I Don’t Know Why I Love You But I Do (Babe)”; however, I held myself back, thinking to myself, “He will think I’m peculiar if I burst into song at the checkout”. But I couldn’t help myself, and, reasoning that there was no harm in being friendly, I leant close and told the man that I was tempted to sing.

The man’s wife looked my way with interest too. They both laughed when they realised that I wasn’t a weirdo.

“When I was about sixteen,” the German man began, “I used to work in a garage, putting petrol in cars, and one day a man couldn’t pay for his petrol, but he did have a stack of vin… – what do you call them?”

“Records,” I answered.

“Yes, records. And do you know, that song was one of them!”

“No!”

“Yes,” he beamed, “And do you know who sang it?”

“No.”

“Well it was Clarence “Frogman” Henry!” he said informatively.

So there we are – what odd things happen even on holiday. And, yes, I know that there isn’t a “babe” in the song – I just think it sounds better!

A recently married young Spanish Senora phoned her mother.

“Oh, Mama,” she cried, “Pablo is such a bitter disappointment to me…”

“What’s the matter Isabella? You’ve only been married for five minutes… I thought you were so in love with him…”

“I was, Mama, but now we’ve had our first fight… Oh, I should have listened to you and Papa. I’m packing my bags and coming home.”

“Now don’t be so hasty Isabella. I have a better idea. Let’s really make him pay – I’ll come to live with you instead!”