Diary – 31 August 2002

The workers teem over the building site that suddenly appeared on the overgrown river-bed which my holiday cottage overlooks. They like to get an early start before the merciless Andalusian sun starts roasting their leathery hides. A couple of hours before breakfast a raucous but not unappealing cacophony of tuned power tools fills the air. The whine of the electric saw is particularly poignant at that time of the morning, reminding me of someone trying to perform the oeuvre of Poulenc using the contents of the Black & Decker catalogue. Next there is the eerie silence of the siesta during which I recline on the day bed in my rooftop office savouring the first Havana of the day and gazing out at La Concha, the local mountain, the lower portion of which will soon be obscured by double-deluxe luxury apartments (executed in the traditional PM3, three-floor Pueblo Mediterranean-style, with all those rustic touches like underfloor heating, on-terrace plunge-pools and underground parking).