Wear Helmets When Sunbathing

I spent 5 days last week in Spain with Girl’s old boy to undertake the pre-inspection of a recently procured property before closing the deal. We were joined by Silvertongue, a family friend. Well more of a family pet. He is gifted in the ways of the tongue and is ‘in the trade’.

The property is the old boy’s retirement project and he has done well. We are far from the dense Eurotrash hoards on the Costa del Chav and in deepest and darkest Spain. This is real Spain! White villages on hill tops with few who speak English. We are in a part of the world lost in time. A sign on the motorway entrance prohibits horses and carriages!

Silvertongue is in good form. Both hands are off the wheel and he is fiddling with his Blackberry, barreling at 200K in our shabby rental, bellowing into his hands free on what is clearly important business.

My anus is sweating. I have the feeling I am about to become a Spanish traffic fatality. The old boy looks pale. Only a few cans of San Miguel calm the sphincter. We arrive. I sleep soundly but at great speed.

The snagging itself is scheduled for an hour but takes two and half. Margarita and Jock, the developer’s representatives, take the ‘if you can’t beat em join em’ attitude and assist in finding all manner of things to add to the list. It was a real team effort though I felt their contribution was largely to expedite our departure.

70 items on the snagging list, we broke the record! Another hour and we could get it to 100.

There is a small sticking point. The villa is the last in a row on the 9th fairway of a the golf course 180 metres away from the tee. This is within bombing distance for the dreaded hacking slicer, 99% of most amateur golfers. When the discussion moves to this issue and solutions are mooted, Margarita, offers practical advice suggesting we can wear helmets when sunbathing.

I am imagining the call I place to Girl. “Darling, it is absolutely fantastic, a few minor snags but all cosmetic. Oh, there is one little thing. You and your mother are going to have to wear helmets when you sunbathe. It’s ok though because Margarita says that they have a great selection of colourful helmets and El Corte Inglese that will go with your designer bikinis.”

That Margarita! She is sooooo funny!

A bit of local shopping, Silvertongue procures an Iberian jamon, and we are back at the club, sitting on the terrace and enjoying a light repast and the afternoon sun. The jamon, the cured hind leg of an acorn fed pig, is 15 kilos and I wonder how Silvertongue will get the beast home. He is unconcerned with this detail and is busy with the Bushnells, binoculars that provide your distance to the green. They are trained on a pair of healthy girly breasts adding, “the target is 4.3 metres away.” The comment is both banal and embarrassing. He moves to a petite girly ass, “5.6…”

When not driving, doing business, golfing or using the Bushnells, Silvertongue is on the phone with one of his shagging bitches talking dirty.

There is a god. The next day during our round of golf Silvertongue steps on the club face of my pitching wedge lying next to the green. The shaft of the club bolts upright and is erected into his tackle. They swell to the size of the jamon. He retreats in the evening licking his wounds.

After 5 days of much beer, wine, jamon, Carlos Primera, school boy humour, and golf, the old boy takes the cup by a commanding 7 strokes. Well done! A great time was had by all. On the way back to the airport we stop at El Corte Inglese to check out the helmet selection. I really did not know that helmets came in so many different colours and styles. The girls will be pleased.

Beaverboosh