In The Heat, East of La Mancha

In the heat, east of La Mancha, the sun burns hard, heavy, scorching tiles and flesh to its stripped, raw bone. Between the hours of 8am and 5pm, it’s a forsaken land, saved only by sprinklers and spilt drinks.

One way of judging the heat is the insect and animal life. In early morning, birds, namely Swifts and Swallows, feast on an abundance of Flies, who themselves feast on the detritus left over from the night before. Lipstick cigarette butts, discarded fruit slices and dog shit. Nothing else is left by the Monsters of La Mancha.

Once the flying breakfast is over, the lunch diners descend on our little soirée. Devil-eyed Wasps, the size of a finger joint swarm around in their ten’s, not once relenting to seek out sweeter sweat than our own.

The Wasps will move on to other pastures once our lunch is done with. It seems they only come out for the children’s Coca Cola and Mother’s sickly perfume.

[[Once the smells of the upper middle classes have disappeared, they too, fly off to fuck each other senseless in a nest on a wall]]

This is seemingly the only life one will see, other than swarms of jet-black Gnats, exploding from the drains on a more humid afternoon, erupting in their hundreds to pick and pester. These minute fiends pose no physical threat but certainly test ones sanity. The dull, whine, drone of its wings could slowly, certainly turn a man insane.

There is one creature, above all, who can withstand any amount of insect onslaught or UV death ray, shot forth from the heavens, and the creature is the seasoned sunbather, intent on making a week away look worthwhile. However, these creatures, like all, can evolve, over decades into something hideous and almost inhuman. The Emigrating British. A strange, mysterious being that is over-dominant on their new turf, and seem only to move to Spain for pure, unforgiving heat. Their bones and flesh are made of coal and burnt driftwood and their skin, is that of road-kill, shrivelled and misshapen the colour of wet Sandstone.

The Women while away their retirement years on their backs, with burnt faces, hen-pecking all that they left behind in, “wet, miserable, England”. Whilst the men, frequent he manicured greens and fairways of the best, Polaris World has to offer.

Each individual is content in the knowledge that they will live out their retirement happily, and die rested, cindered souls.

18/9/10

Sucina. Espana