Like Arthur Dent learning to fly, I have to trick myself into writing. The imitation page on the screen blanks me, when I ask it what I'm going to write today. So I think about something topical: filling in a tax-return, perhaps. Although I don't have to fill one in anyway. Or I'll pick up a free newspaper and read the latest mis-reported story about the Mayor's corruption trial. Luckily, spring is here more or less, so after 10, with the sun a little higher in the sky, I can sit outside and watch cars and people pass the gate. Whilst not writing.
It's Friday, today. Normally, I'd go for a beer about 5. Talk most ungrammatical Spanish with Txema the builder and watch Andres as he demonstrates how not to run a roadside bar. Not today though; Andres has retired. Markus has taken on the lease. I hope he didn't pay too much. The building is falling down, really. Markus has plans; karaoke, riding club breakfasts, bingo, bratwurst, schnitzels, eisbein. I am looking forward to the British Enclave's reaction to these developments. Some of them are old enough to bear a grudge, it's a fact – although I doubt any of them remember much about the war. Anyway, no Venta today: it's closed for renovations, but it's a rebuild it needs.
Well, I'm looking at the page. Surprise! It's no longer blank. I don't suppose you could call it writing, but – like Arthur throwing himself at the ground and missing – imagination beat gravity again.