Writing Home 2

La Casa Del Gato Gordo, Canary Islands, April 4th 2020.

Dear Son, 

Well it’s morning on day 22 of my lockdown. I just had my breakfast.

Yesterday afternoon was glorious, the first really warm day where I managed to get up on the roof terrace and soak in the sun for a couple of hours. The only draw back is that there’s a block of flats opposite and a couple of old ladies were sitting on their balconies and it felt a bit like they were watching me. 

But if anything this Coronavirus Caper has taught me that the important thing is to make the best out of bad situations. So I was thinking about my Crinkly Cam idea, maybe the roof terrace was a good time for a dry run? 

So I stripped down to my Calvins & dug out a bottle of coconut oil from my washbag and oiled myself up, as if no one were watching if you get my drift. 

I think it worked because  I’m pretty certain one of the old Senoritas was taking photos of me on her mobile. The other lady on another balcony had a friend join her out & all three of them stayed there until I popped my kit back on in the late afternoon. 

In the house all is quiet, expect for the creepy cat Cesare, who seems to be stalking me. I will be doing something, like reading or on the computer when out of the corner of my eye I will see the bloody animal just staring at me, it is really freaky. More so as I started googling creepy cats and found lots of articles about domestic cats that ended up eating their owners. If there was a man eating pussy then Cesare would fit the bill 100%.

I’d said I’d watched everything on Netflix, Now TV & Amazon, well now I’ve exhausted the podcasts on BBC Radio as well. And Tinder, well that’s just a waste of time. 

I did a spot of sexting, I know you’ll be horrified at the prospect, but I assure you that nothing was sent unsolicited. But in the end I had to give it up as a bad job, it’s really difficult to film yourself one handed, it calls for a level of dexterity that I simply don’t possess, and a selfie stick or similar device smacks to me of pre-planning which takes all the fun out of it. 

This sad state of affairs has arisen in part due to the fact that the only woman I’m particularly into has dumped me for a Frenchman, a philosopher. This is made all the worse as the bloke in question has been dead since 1984. It comes to a pretty state of affairs when a woman would rather spend her time with a dead bald as a coot Frenchman than you. Fuck Foucalt, that’s all I can say. 

Maybe this whole thing is a way of the Universe telling me that I need to do something else. I’m a bit sick of all the shite online calling for global meditation, or kundalini courses for navel gazing. Or these people singing badly from balconies. There has to be something better to do, however much I might crave some human company.

But hold on, the sun is out now, I think me and the coconut oil need to get out on the roof terrace. It’s show time.

Catch you later my Boy. 

XXX 


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