Hitting the 10,000 steps
I finished up last night by going for a solitary dinner at “La Tabla Belga” on the strip here at Calahonda. As it didn’t serve fish’n’chips or curries, it was empty, (other than a lachrymose older man who smiled at me and told me to enjoy life while I could. I assumed he was a Manchester City supporter). What it did serve was an exceptional moules-frites, with the sauce being a Ricard-cream-garlic concoction that still has me salivating at the mouth almost 24 hours later. God it was good, and to top it all, they had a fine selection of Belgian beers (in bottles, sadly).
It took me back to when I was working at the Jean Lamour on Place Stanislas in Nancy. My friend Philippe was also a waiter there – and he stepped in to prepare some of the staff meals at times. He once did this pork tenderloin with a Pernod sauce that I can still taste today. I almost called him up to tell him… but I was too busy eating.
Today was me starting to get serious. And by that, I mean settling down to work and getting something done for The Singing Forest. I managed some 2000 words, which is exceptional for me, but it is slightly distorted by my having reworked something I wrote earlier.
Tomorrow I am off for a haircut. I have resisted this moment for nearly 2.5 years, but as I was coming into Málaga airport, I saw a couple of students advertising for models. Yes, I know what you are thinking, but it is nothing like that. They weren’t offering Greek massages or French lessons either – they were seeking members of the public to volunteer for a free haircut, which was to be administered (if that is the right verb) by students at their hairdressing institute (or whatever the English for escuela de belezza is.
I went over to read the sign more closely and one of them said something that might be interpreted as either “you look like an ideal candidate for our students” or “we don’t want people like you with your lank greying hair, piss off”. Instead, I came out with “I’m sorry, I haven’t learned much Spanish yet” and the female of the species kindly explained in English.
It turns out that they give you and 2-3 other people a set time, and four nervous graduating students are given a picture of a haircut, which they then have to do. I must have looked a little taken aback because she then explained that the students would be closely supervised and anything incorrect would be stopped before it started… I’m not sure they can abide by that guarantee, but whatever. So I signed up for it and was given a time tomorrow in Málaga and asked to confirm it 24 hours in advance, which I have done.
The following thought has since occurred to me: what happens if I don’t like the haircut chosen for me? What happens if it is a mullet or orange dreadlocks? What happens if it is a frigging perm? I had a couple of those when I was younger (it was mandatory if you had aspirations to be a footballer in Liverpool in the early 1980s). I’m all up for donating my body to science – even aesthetic science – but there has to be a line somewhere.
So, I emailed again and await a response.
After that, I went for a walk along the boardwalk and wandered down to put a load of laundry in at the petrol station/community hub I frequented last time I was here. Unfortunately it is now a Carrefour mini mart, so I snorted my disgust and buggered off to find another suitable candidate for my ritual clothe cleansing.
I am now off to visit Fran for an aperitif at Chambao Beach. My step count doesn’t differentiate between good honest exercise and walking over a footbridge to go to the pub. I’ve even been practising my Spanish. Lucky Fran. Blip is me hitting my daily step target.