I can barely believe it. I’m back in the UK and … it’s warm. Woo-hoo!
It’s just after midnight by the time my plane lands, and I’m bracing myself for impact: a cold wind perhaps, maybe a bit of rain. But no. It’s not cold. It’s midnight and I don’t even need my jacket. How’s that for a warm welcome?
Although I’m a bit sad to say adios to Barcelona, I can’t deny I’ve had ten glorious days … being blissfully ignored by menfolk. Although I met some very nice guys, none of them was interested in me. Or at least, not interested enough to let me know about it.
There was one guy who caressed my elbow hopefully whilst he very kindly waited with me for the night bus, but an elbow caress is easy to ignore. So I did.
The Bull, however, has been messaging me throughout my trip, but I think I’ll have to nip that in the bud.
He’s a nice enough guy, but there’s still something about him that makes me uneasy. And if I’m honest, although he’s good company, I just don’t fancy him. His attentions are flattering, but I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. So that’s the end of that.
It’s good to know that I haven’t lost my touch with the older generation, though.
I’m sitting in the library, getting on with some work, when I feel someone looking at me. Unsuitable Man #6 is sketching those around him, and it seems that it’s now my turn. He catches my eye as he looks up again, and we exchange a brief smile before I turn back to my work.
I’m quite absorbed in what I’m doing, so I almost leap out of my skin when I find him at my elbow, proffering the fruits of his labour.
“I thought you might like to have this,” he says, holding out what can only be described as a child-like sketch, clumsily executed in blunt charcoal.
“Oh … erm … thank you!” I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “That’s very kind of you.”
My acceptance of his oeuvre seems to open the floodgates, and he tells me how he’s taken up drawing since his retirement (yes, ladies, he’s over 65) and finds the library a good place to develop his art. He’s been having trouble mastering charcoal, apparently, but he’s sure that if he just perseveres, he’ll get there in the end.
I murmur something encouraging, but actually, I’m itching to get back to my work. I don’t want to be rude, though, so we chat for a few minutes more before he says, with an earnest eye:
“Perhaps I could buy you a coffee?”
“That’s very kind of you,” I say, “but I’ll be going for lunch shortly.”
“Well then,” he ventures, with a twinkle in his eye that I’m keen to quell, “maybe a sandwich…?”
“Thank you,” I reply, a bit more firmly this time, “I’m meeting a friend for lunch. But thank you very much, it’s very kind of you to offer.”
Only slightly abashed, he returns to his sketching, while I’m obliged to gather up my belongings and tootle off for “lunch with a friend”.
As I leave, I have to stifle a smile. I may have decided to give up on searching for the love of my life, but to the over 65s, my appeal remains undiminished.
I just can’t keep the old tigers at bay.