Have you looked under the sink?

The story so far: In the beginning, the universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move. "What's the point?" is a frequently asked question. Ken and I decide that the correct answer is "have you looked under the sink?"

A languorous day of conversation and eating unfolds. There is sunshine and clouds. We sit on the porch, enjoying the produce of Ken's labours: snacks for lunch, followed by early evening lasagne and sticky toffee pudding, with black pudding and apple omelette for supper. There is wine and beer. We explore the vagaries of "dinner", "lunch", "supper", and "tea" in English usage and discuss the etymology of "cubbyhole". I concede that I owe Ken's father a bottle of fine tequila to honour an historic bet that I would never "go mainstream."

Cristina talks entertainingly about family dramas, her work as a lawyer for the federation of trade unions, the scatological after-meetings songs, the acquisition of Bruce, their dog.

Ken and I visit Marugán. In the bar tabac Ken stocks up in Camels, I drink a beer, and we eat tough tapas. Old men play dominos and watch telly. Over the road, in the town hall, there is a cultural event. A room full of citizens listen to short stories about summer.

We drive towards the aerodrome. From here, industrial sized fields roll repetitively north, interspersed with trees. To the south is Segovia and the mountains that separate it from Madrid. There are sheep fenced in a yard strewn with straw. I feel a tinge of agoraphobia.

As the hours of the day trickle into the past, words polish the patina of thirty years. Stories are told and retold. Incompatible and contradictory memories compared. Politics are reaffirmed and decades of books, films and culture are exchanged. Darkness falls. Tomorrow arrives unbidden. Talk is interleaved with comfortable silences, until finally it is time for sleep.