Anyway, I hope that the blogging world can see it in their hearts to forgive me for such crimes, especially Geriatric Mummy who's blog I guest posted on.
My space is home, filled with chuckles, deep hearty manly chuckles and infectious little boy chuckles. Cuddles and beaming smiles, administering magic kisses on poorly knees. The sound of background noise, radio 2 or an Indie music TVchannel or more often than not, Peppa Pig. Not too loud, because I like to think. The computer humming, the tapping of the keys as I twitter or blog or facebook the hours away.
My space is blue, blue skies and blue, blue sea punctuated with the green, green rice fields. The heady perfume of orange groves in spring, the sticky sweet scent of rice in summer and sadly the smell of manure (chicken shit?) in winter. A lone shepherd meandering his way down dirt tracks and country lanes, his flock of goats & sheep following timidly behind in search of tasty grazing.
My space is the beach, watching my boy splashing in the surf and listening to the sounds of the waves gently lapping the shore. A double cone of cherry and chocolate ice cream before we go home or a fragrant spit roasted chicken to take away. A seaview restaurant serving paella made with local fish and rice, the food of my doorstep.
My space is a bicycle ride through the Delta, following the flat, flat roads through the seemingly never ending rice fields, to where the River Ebro finally spills into the Mediterranean. The Mussel farm nets lacing the shore. A natural habitat for thousands of different birds, a nesting and breeding place for beautiful flamingos. A place so peaceful and tranquil, save for the odd hunter shooting duck.
My space is a boat trip down the river Ebro, t’husband at the helm, helped by Able Seaman Joseph. The warm sun reflecting off the cool green water. The mountains setting a stunning backdrop. Mullet & carp leaping out of the water, probably being chased by the giant catfish lurking in the murky depths.
My space is my rooftop terrace, where at night the unadulterated sky sparkles with the brightest stars and the biggest moon, and the occasional Ryanair flight from Reus to Luton or Stanstead. The scent of our BBQ dinner still in the air as we sip (sup) some of the finest wine in the world from vineyards we can drive to. The mosquitoes revelling in the feast that is my English blood. In the day the bourgeonvilla creeps its way along the wall and blooms its pinkest flowers, my Lime tree refuses to flourish or fruit, the little purple flowers who name I don’t know, permeate the air with their fragrance.
My space is my bed, the far right hand side nearest the en suite and the door. I say the far right hand side, not because we have a big bed but because I am usually left with about 2 inches of bed space after t’husband has sprawled himself out. A trusty book by my side, to lose myself in and be transported to another world before sleep takes over.
My space is far away, off to some distant place in my mind, present, future or past. Daydreaming and scheming, planning and wishing. Sadly all too often, about being somewhere else.