So, an opportunity arose wherein my partner and I were offered the chance to spend a week in Spain, with the home base for this adventure being located in a not-very-big town somewhat north of Malaga known as Cuevas del Becerro. This tantalizing concept (“we plan to do nothing but relax and unwind”) was proffered by our good friends known on this blog (assuming that you have stuck with my musings for any length of time) as the Esteemed Ladies of the Aten-Shearwood Manor in the UK. Well, I suppose I should insert “what may or may not be left of the UK after all this Brexit crap-fest settles down”.
We love these Ladies of the Manor with strongly-felt emoticons. They are excellent travel companions, proving their worth time and again over centuries of excursions (we might be old in tooth but we still have passports, so get out of the way and pray for daylight). So when The Ladies surfaced their latest jet-setting whim (“Have you never been to Spain? I kinda like the music”) during a random Skype conversation, I embraced the proposed endeavor with an enthusiasm just short of orgasm.
My partner was not quite so quick to whack at the piñata of happenstance. After all, he’s still enmeshed in the horrid, amoral, cryptic web of Corporate America. He only has so many vacation days to seize and relish, whilst I’m retired and my number of vacation days stretches from here to the national border where Donald Trump wants to build a wall because he’s a twat.
But I digress.
End of the day, my partner eventually hit the buzzer of affirmation, and in the next few days we will be boarding a plane, Spain-bound. This promises to be an exciting and wonderful lark but, alas, dear reader, there might be a few hiccups here at Bonnywood Manor whilst we guzzle sangria, sample loads of local cuisine and belch contentedly.
I already have several posts queued up for the duration of our international sojourn, so you should at least have something fresh to peruse on your daily digital visits to Bonnywood. (You do visit every day, yes? This is what I assume you do when I envision my perfect blog world, so just nod your head in affirmation. It’s rude and un-neighborly to kill another person’s dreams, so let’s not, hmm?)
No, the only potential speed bump will be on my end (excuse the imagery that might invoke) as we frolic about the Spanish countryside. Rumor has it that the Internet connection, when it does burble to life, can be rather anemic and standoffish. This means that I may not be able to make immediate responses to your likes, comments and invitations to accept literary awards in Sweden (more “perfect blog world” with that last bit).
I really enjoy responding to comments, as some of you may have noticed when you proffer just a wisp of communication (“I like kumquats, too. Yum!”) and I come back with a three-page treatise concerning a kumquat I once met during a rehab stint in Puerto Vallarta. It’s just my thing. I am rarely able to demurely say “Thank you” and then move on with my life.
So, please continue to interact at Bonnywood as if I’m sitting right here at the laptop, pouncing on any submitted comments. Just understand that there might be a slight delay, and it doesn’t mean I love you any less than other members of the family who might get a response before you do. I’m sure that even if the Internet signal truly is AWOL in our rented dwelling, we will eventually grow dissatisfied with the social-media silence, rushing to climb the nearest mountain and wave about our wireless phones, yearning for the validation of the signal bars lighting up. (Or maybe not. Did I mention sangria? And lots of food? There may be a few distractions.)
Side note to the few wingnuts out there who may be reading this and thinking, hmm, Bonnywood Manor is going to be vacated and I can rush in there and abscond with all their worldly treasures: think again. We have a house-sitter who will not hesitate to crush you. Our treasure is not for your pleasure, so just move along, nothing to see here, including the baseball bat you will definitely not see coming.
And on that note of peaceful humanity, it’s best that I cease and desist with the rambling. It’s time for the ceremonial Packing of the Suitcases, an arduous, often two-day task wherein every single item in the entire household is tucked in one of the suitcases and then wrenched right back out at least three times until I make my final selections. This process also alerts the cat-kiddies that the Daddies are leaving on a jet plane and there will be dark, treat-less days ahead. They will both increasingly ratchet up the obnoxious and attention-getting behavior in a concerted effort to get us to change our minds, culminating in a final confrontation full of hissing and accusations. It should be fun.
Stay tuned for random photos of me falling off a Spanish mountain, clutching a weakly-lit wireless phone and a jug of sangria.