Uncle Mauritius and Cousin A visited us recently. Here is an image of the jolly occasion. For reasons of privacy, their faces have been obscured.

Now, there was a class act!

I feel I should explain to my many readers at home and abroad the reason I took so long to get in the sea, thereby having “The Dryman” appellation bestowed upon me for posterity . This was because my beach attire, once I had taken my torn, faded shorts off, consisted of a less than natty pair of ‘pouch’ style underpants, frayed at the edges and worn so thin they were to all intents and purposes see through. The prospect of cavorting in these skimpy shrargs in front of a half dozen freshly made aquaintances, all wearing the latest cut and fabric with designer labels prominantly displayed, was too hideous to contemplate. Of course, when I did eventually get in the water, when everyone’s attention was taken by a nearby jellyfish, I had to stay in for an inordinate length of time because coming out was even more fraught with potential embarassment. As anyone who has ever worn this particular breed of undergarment in the water knows, it behaves like cling film when wet!

I must put on record, though, that I had three pairs of pouch underpants left over from the 80’s or 90’s, or whenever it was that blokes tended to wear such repulsive things, which I took to Spain to use instead of swimming trunks (the general idea being that instead of having a tan that stopped mid thigh I would have one that went a bit higher). Two pairs were in tolerable condition and could at a reasonable distance have passed for “Speedo” swimming costumes as sported by ageing French lotharios and younger East Europeans; the other was as threadbare as an old church tapestry. It was just my bad luck that on the day in question the more presentable ones were wet.

What a blessed relief! A weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Australia humbled, England victorious.

During five weeks spent in a part of Spain that necessitated four mile daily walks to the beach and back, with butter and cheese being prohibitively expensive, and us not eating much because of the heat anyway, I felt the fatty layers dropping off me like excess baggage. However, I still appear to weigh just the same as when I left. Having massively overindulged in coffee consumption, though, the withdrawal symptoms I am now experiencing are horrendous.

Abiding memories of Spain are the agony experienced while waiting for the latest text message from Liv updating me on England’s cricket progress. The finale to the fourth test had me close to heart seizure.

My main disappointment was meeting an Australian and preparing to gloat only to find he was less interested in cricket than the average Spaniard.

Julien visited us for lunch one day and after sniffing the air judiciously pronounced where we were staying as a ‘veritable Garden of Eden’. I’m sure Neil was gratified to hear this. His vegetable garden puts ours to shame, although I did discover him putting some sort of bovine elixer – distilled bull’s trachia, along the lines of Bovril – onto his growing plants.

I feel like a hillbilly just arrved in town. I´m all confused now I´m away from the garden.

I was at the beach the other day and some Catalan started calling me ´The Dryman´because I took so long to go in the sea.