Most mornings I am the first to stir and remain up, (as opposed to shuffling to the loo and back to bed by he who shall be nameless on this occasion). I, on the other hand, shuffle through the apartment in the dark, using mobile phone as a torch, to retrieve my ipad from its overnight charging position, and thence to my quiet hour in solitude. Why do I move in the dark, you may ask? Its because I do not want to disturb he who is slumbering and another he, who is perched under a blanket. Actually he who is perched, is a she since laying eggs after 30 plus years, but that is another tale. 

The first hour of each day is special to me, but this morning urges me to comment. The season has changed and it brings of course the changing hours of daylight as well as the weather. I slide open a terrace door, and look out into the predawn, nothing exotic here, we live in town in a 4th top floor apartment, so I see other buildings, and the sky, and at dawn a glimpse of the sea. Today however my eye was drawn to a sliver of moon, an attending star, and then I realised the sky is clear of recent cloud and is covered in stars, pretty sure Orion was above, (he who is slumbering would know but I shall not wake him), so I enjoy the spectacle alone in my special morning solitude, wondering who else is gazing starwards and relishing the moment.

Daylight is here, the townsfolk are about, the clouds are back and we have had a 5 minute downpour, so thankful for the rain after the long, hot and dry summer, the island needs every drop. I hear movement, so I anticipate a coffee in due course.

If you have read this piece, thank you, I had to share the dawn with someone. 

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Why is nothing ever simple (sigh) ... Many years ago I decided to do a piece of tapestry, but it was never completed, nevertheless I faithfully carried this old plastic bag containing the canvas and threads to wherever was my destiny, sometimes taken out to be reviewed but not actually taken up again. Since returning to Europe I at some stage persuaded myself that a wooden frame was just what I needed to use to complete the tapestry, now snuggled at the bottom of a hamper weighed down with baby wools. Yesterday I hauled out the as yet unopened box containing the frame, emptied the hamper to find the faithful tapestry and proceeded to my usual perch to wrestle with the assembly of said item, which resembles a mini rack of torture. Louis took one look at my useless arms and hands flailing around with this thing, ignored my little gasps of frustration and decided he was leaving the room to take a siesta!  In searching the hamper I rediscovered a couple of little crossstitch kits I had picked up in London - have never tried these before, so these were brought along to my perch too. Eventually all was assembled, tapestry was duly tacked onto frame and then I remembered, the tapestry needle was nestled at the end which I had just rolled up, so more wrestling, needle recovered and put aside.

My vision having deteriorated considerably over the years and even more rapidly since the first chemo treatment, persuaded me to leave the tapestry until the morrow and better light. Today dawned fresh from yesterday's rain, most welcome, and as the hours took on sunlight I decided after breakfast to have a go and reacquaint myself with my old friend and its various shades of cottons. Now, where is the needle? Faithfully retained in the canvas, must be for about 35 plus years - so long ago I do not remember when this whole thing started but my son is 41 and I think I remember where I purchased it, so 35 is not too far out - frantic searching all over yesterday's perch, no needle! frantic searching of work basket, no needle. Move the couch into middle of room, search the floor tiles, no needle. Louis says "here are needles!" - "No, not those needles, this one is bigger than that one, smaller than that one, not shining like the new one" - he leaves the room to tend his orchids.

Having hauled the sofa across the room, one glance told me my suspicions are correct about one thing - we have a little local visitor who darts around all over between our apartment terrace and our roof garden above us, assuming it's him and not his cousin - I refer to him as 'our fat friend' because he is quite big compared to other little geckos - this year we have spotted him well within other rooms as well as our normal lounging area and I have often wondered if he hides out under the sofa, waiting for us to go to bed, then my imagination takes flight and I can visualise him darting into Biggles cage to look for a tasty morsel - well, something must be causing Biggles to fall off his perch in the middle of the night with the attendant sounds of thrashing around and bells clanging as he struggles to regain his composure. Bet its our fat friend. So, as the floor obviously needs a mopping I fill a bucket and freshen up the usually covered area, all the while looking for the needle. No needle!

Thank goodness! After searching the apartment floors, yesterday's clothes, and anywhere else it may have rolled to, in returning to replace the furniture, replacing a side table, I spy the needle! After all the years of keeping this needle I was determined to find it and it is now threaded and currently attached to its partner, the tapestry. Happy stitching to my fellow needle women, wherever you may be - and don't lose your needle - it is the best I can wish for you.

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Sigh!! Here I sit on a Sunday morning as the sun rises, surrounded by chaos. The painters arrived by rope.

There was a strange noise on Friday afternoon as Biggles and I were quietly enjoying a siesta, he on the terrace, me nearby. I had to investigate, Biggles looked alarmed but said nothing - and then I realised a rope had descended straight onto the delicate hibiscus! I couldn't believe it! What idiot is going to throw a rope down without checking where it will land - think this blog update is going to turn into a rant, on behalf of Biggles and I, altho' to be honest Biggles has been most unfriendly, unruly, stressed out and we all need a quiet Sunday free of painters.

Anyway I carefully lifted the rope off the now damaged hibiscus and helpfully started to untangle the mess, all the while looking upwards - no heads appeared - and eventually I gave up and went inside. Ten minutes later there is an irate screech from you know who, and there stands a smiling painter! From then on things deteriorated rapidly - Biggles protested continuously at this intrusion and so I wheeled him indoors and around a corner where he couldn't see what was happening.

Next, move my husband's orchid collection to various tables around the apartment as another painter arrives, I don't remember now whether he came by the front door or also descended by rope. I was assured I need not move anything else, all would be protected, but eventually I decided all the furniture cushions must be moved, and luckily there are two accesses so I could swiftly move those items to our lounge area. Of course hubby was out that afternoon so the pleasure was all mine. 

We had already had a week of constant buzzes from the street below, painters wanting access to the building, and no amount of telling them to leave the street door open had any effect whatsoever. Then they had demanded a key to the roof area, small part of which we use as a roof garden, it's hubby's escape area, he says to learn his masonic stuff, or Spanish, just lately I think it has become a sunbathing-snoozing area. They were not satisfied that we would unlock every day and lock again at night. They never lock it at night I might add. Not sure why admin did not give them a key instead of demanding ours.

Day 2, yesterday, revealed no painting was going to be done on our laundry terrace, because it was enclosed! Between our awful and limited Spanish, one painter's tentative English, and the other painter's no English whatsoever (turns out he is Romanian according to hubby) we managed to understand that if we wanted our laundry area painted there would be a private charge, OF COURSE! Suspecting this quotation was probably highly inflated we nevertheless decided it was worth it. But then having done the laundry and the main terrace, they ran out of paint and did not complete the third terrace also outside the lounge and our bedroom, inspite of various preparations and commencement on the bits that need a small brush, not a roller. Every time a painter got anywhere near Biggles he screamed his silly head off, and they were coming and going all the time between all three terraces, and in and out of the apartment, arrived at 8, breakfast in Spain is not enjoyed until about 10, so there we had more buzzing at the street door as well as the internal movement within the apartment -lunch is between 1 and 3pm apparently.

So, the main terrace is still covered in protection sheets, our living area inside is populated with orchids on the table, and my various decorative bits from the kitchen windowsill in the laundry, and our quiet usually serene lounge is now host to all the loose seating cushions and comfort cushions stacked up on hubby's favourite chair (she smiles - he hardly uses it, only if he has a bad night and gets up to read, but hey there is a whole comfy settee to use meanwhile), and more orchids on another little table are hiding here too, back in their winter corner.

When hubby (shall call him Louis, as the word hubby is annoying me) returned from his Friday afternoon outing I urged him to check the rooftop situation as I had little doubt there would be damage there too, sure enough, a rope pulled over the potted tomatoes and across a Rose grrrrrrrrrrr. They only had to move a pot! Louis has moved them.

By the end of the day we discovered they were not contracted to paint the roof area either, and if we wanted it done in our little area, it was going to be another expensive arrangement. We declined. Not forgetting we have been paying a special levy to cover this much needed improvement.

People have remarked that it is a strange time of year to embark on this task, being very hot, and I have to sympathise with the painters working in the heat and can only imagine that with people needing the work given the unemployment situation in Spain, this job was eagerly taken up.

Hoping they finish tomorrow, and our home is again tidy by Tuesday.

Can't wait for the neighbour below us to discover her laundry terrace which is also enclosed is not to be painted, Debra is a fiery little Italian woman, and I am betting there will be a small Italian explosion downstairs this week.

A last thought for all those grieving the loss of MH17. I am shocked, sickened and saddened by the events in the Ukraine. Disgraceful.

Happy Sunday to you all.

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I guess we all have favourite things that bring us comfort and pleasure, things that confirm that in spite of this poor world of ours so stricken with disasters, wars, disease and poverty, there are still some things, or people or even traditions that continue to reassure us that our world retains beauty, tranquility, kindness and I suppose, some would say miracles.

Even though I now live on a 4th floor apartment, in a small seaside town, I bless the internet daily, for it enables me to indulge in the things that reassure me and give me this sense that not all is in chaos. I have made mention of Instagram, and I do so again because another collection I follow is floret flower - a flower farm just north of Seattle. To be greeted every day with the marvel of the exquisite blooms pictured here is a treat to which I have become addicted.  Recently it was Sweet Peas, Dahlias, and now Godetias have appeared and one can drink in their beauty and admire the pure sweetness of the floral kingdom. I will add a pic to illustrate somewhere here in due course.

Just in case the reader thinks I am sinking into my dotage in this electronic and virtual world let me hasten to add that this week brought the opportunity to do something useful with my time and my pc, besides the housework etc. it has been a funny old week. I volunteered my services to assist with transcribing details of old uk parish registers - I find it fascinating - learning about the trades of people in Victorian times, currently the cotton mills in Lancashire. I am still being trained but hope to become a useful part of this team.

We had an opportunity yesterday to visit my son, always a treat, and I was surprised with a late birthday gift - a very unusual choker necklace, a gold rope/chain hung with miniature amphorae, now of course I had to research this in the evening, as it prompted my curiosity, and my son has a habit of seeking out the unusual, so I am not certain, but this jewellery appears to be Victorian. It can be worn as a bracelet too.

Biggles is in for another surprise, ...... Our building is being painted! So any day now a strange head might pop over our terrace wall - not sure how though as there is so far no sign of scaffolding being erected ... All will be revealed in due course. Our building is not the prettiest to behold and it has concerned me for some time that every annual meeting has brought forward nothing more than a mention of quotations and a seeming reluctance to provide the funds by way of a special levy, but, as it's all in Spanish I can only grasp the general intentions. Seems we have been saving up for this grand improvement and now the day has come! Hooray! I wonder what Biggles will have to say about this promised disruption of his territory.

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Poor Biggles has been forced into an early retirement with us. He has been with us about 30 years, and he is quite a grumpy, vicious, destructive bird - at times the odd foul word can be heard too - but it was for those very reasons we decided to bring him to Spain too. African Greys can live a long time, and as he was an imported bird from Angola, not hand reared, we feared a new home would not understand him as we do, as people seem to like creatures they can cuddle and stroke and make baby noises to, (that's us too actually, but I digress), however forget cuddles where Biggles is concerned. 

One has to understand his life has changed over the years - where he once shared a home with dogs and crazy cats, noisy aviaries in the garden too - he was well entertained - the home on weekends contained teenagers, and during the week he spent summer days on a patio that was overlooked by a high school, specifically the rugby field, and so loud voices, and whistles were part of his life. Not forgetting his attempts at screaming 'Amandla' in the giddy days of the Mandela release from incarceration.

When we holidayed in Cape Town he came with us on the 1000 mile road journey, enjoying a breakfast snack at Bloemfontein Wimpey, a little more at Three Sisters in the Karoo. We didn't often break the journey at a motel, preferring to travel through in a day, either way he was happy in his smaller cage whatever we did, until we reached our spot in CT where a larger cage was awaiting his presence, and he could then pretend to be a sea gull and echo their cries. Not forgetting his disapproval of any garage attendant when we stopped for fuel - he could be quite vocal and objectionable.

We eventually moved to CT permanently and after a time took on 2 Dachshunds, by then we had only 1 cat, my beloved Keno, a Seal Point Siamese - and still today Biggles will sometimes echo my call for Keno, even though that beloved pet is no more - being 16 when his life came to an end. 

Now we are just 3, for a short time we were 4 here when we took on my grand daughter's budgie - suddenly Biggles started telling that bird to 'be quiet' - no idea where he picked that up! But as you all probably know, budgies are very chattery.

Summer days now are spent on our terrace, and in the evenings his cage is wheeled to the terrace wall and he can observe and call to the Spanish children who kick a ball around every evening in the street below. Sometimes someone from another building will whistle and that will set him off, and he occasionally mimics various dogs that can be heard in the neighbourhood. Other than that he has visits from the local sparrows always looking for anything he may have chucked out of his cage.

When indoors he is often allowed to climb out and stretch his wings, but we have to make sure he is well away from reaching any walls, which he has already tested and tasted! He normally pretends he is a 'Poor Boy' and will repeat that until the door is opened for him. He does get his head scratched but one has to keep an eye on him all the time, bites are painful.

In mentioning my adored Keno, I have in recent times taken an interest in Instagram, and there is a lady in Australia who has 2 Chocolate Point Siamese - they are the absolute mirror image of Keno and I enjoy looking out for them (Benny and Leroy) and remembering the wonderful and dear moments I shared with him.

Of course Biggles has a little Spanish, Hola being the local greeting, and he learnt that long before we came to Spain. We tried him with a little German too, Guten Tag, it took ages, and when my son returned from Austria on a visit we were rather deflated to be told they don't say that in Austria - Grus Gott is the greeting - by then it was never going to happen after all the Guten Tag stuff we had been reciting for months on end!  Oh well! You can't win every time.

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Please excuse any perceived banal comment - this is a test run.

Saturday 28 June 2014 (presume a blog should be dated)

Absolutely nothing exciting to report - this is an island - nothing much happens here - at least not to us in our retirement mode - questions of the day usually revolve around what to eat. We do have one little problem, however. It's the question of purchasing local bread, and finding it full of holes, which could be interpreted (by my husband) as purchasing fresh air. We enjoy the bread, not being factory produced, but it is quite difficult to toast when thinly sliced - by the bakery at our request - and then it has to be carefully introduced to and monitored in the toaster. Guess who often burns it (lack of attention) - sigh! - cannot even give it to Biggles!(our African Grey), as he is most particular but never the less always on the look out for a tasty treat, I swear he has X-ray eyes, nose and ears, as he will nag and nag when we are preparing a meal, or eating icecream, or opening a chocolate. Spoilt!

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