The Spanish close their shops, shut the shutters and wait for the maddening heat to die down. There's something about that heat. You can't think properly. It stops your brain working. Alright for sitting in a bar or on the beach, but no good for getting work done. We zipped home at a fair pace, winding along the dangerously narrow canal road at breakneck speed (I found out later Dave used to teach the advanced driving course) and overtaking everything in sight. Dave didn't want to miss the match on TV (he didn't manage to get us Barcelona football tickets for this game). Arriving back at my flat, I showered and changed – very definitely shorts weather, although the Spanish guys all had long trousers on. Walking next door to see Dave he was already settled, cider can in hand, feet up, watching the game. He bid me help myself to a drink and sit down. There's not much I could really contribute to Dave's experience of watching football.
Nevertheless he seemed to enjoy my company. When one of the more blatantly bad decisions was made, I could join on with the howls of disgust, but most of the time I just sat and listened to Dave's commentary, which always highlighted the finer points of goalkeeper behaviour. So that was the start, five years ago. Now Dave' flat is empty. Nobody can watch football in English any more. All the estate agencies have shut down. Half of the English have left. Even the Romanians and Moroccans didn't think it worthwhile staying.
Perhaps it's time for me to go too.
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