Mirror, mirror, not on the wall

About to go to bed (midnight, early!) think about having a bath and the think I am not sure there's a point if I'm going in the pool first thing. Is that disgusting? There is a lot of chlorine in there, after all, but I suppose it is not a recommended beauty routine.

I have not looked in a mirror for two weeks, if you don't count dark ones in public toilets. There are some mirrors in the house, but it is pretty hard to see in them. I have to wonder what I look like, as Xtina will be here on Thursday and will be quick to spot any downward trend on the path to a Greta-like state where I will not be able to fit my feet into my shoes.

Mind you, Juana and Pablo will be the first to point it out. They came round after a few days to say hello and after looking me up and down, Juana nodded sagely and said, well, you have put on a couple of kilos.
"Oh, really?" I asked, looking unconvinced.
"Yes," she said, firmly. "Why is that?"
I said, perhaps because I had stopped working.
"Aha!" she said triumphantly, as if that rested her case. "Anyway, it makes you look younger, about three years younger," she said.
Well, that's ok then. The weird thing is, I didnt mind at all. I didnt mind being told, and I dont mind putting on a few kilos. Who's looking at you, anyway, as Anita's mother says. Nobody round here.

Meanwhile, the removals, which I feel I have handled more or less single handed, give or take a few burly men, have taken their toll on my beauty regime. I have not painted my nails, and I am injured in various ways. I have a cut on my toe (broken glass - I have broken about 7 during the move, maybe it is now good luck) a bang on my head (trying to get plaster off the stable door), and various bruises on my arms from bumping into things (somnambulently walking around trying to unpack at 2 a.m., moaning at Sandy for sitting outside with a cigar). Fortunately, mosquitoes don't like me so am not bitten, though I have a wasp sting on my foot; unlike Sandy I did not make a huge fuss and claim my arm was swelling up to twice its size. You need to shave your legs about twice as often here, too. It is clearly going to be easy to let myself go; even now am relaxing my grip. The only good thing is that once I can actually leave the house and stop unpacking, I can get a suntan which will cover some of the damage.

Looking back at my past post, I now know I will not be getting any more Creme de la Mer, or any of that truck. Ha ha! I will be far too Almerían before long! Already, I have trodden down the backs of my Camper shoes, and it is only a matter of time before I am using Mercadona beauty products. It is a mystery where you get most cosmetics - all I have seen so far is nail polish, which they sell in the various local shops called Bazaar and "Mira Que Précios!" (Look at the prices!), along with hairslides, folding beach chairs, toasters, and so on. Why bother? The only people I have seen today are goats, and tomorrow it will only be the decorators, though mind you I do like Juan, who has had an interesting conversation with me about Princess Diana (she was not murdered, that was just the newspapers), Franco (his grandfather's experiences; though not religious he was shopped by someone for something religious - I didn't follow this entirely) and the Spanish royal family (they breed like rabbits "crian como conejos" and cost too much.) He has also advised me on how to clean the floor (not with the hoover and on your knees with a scrubby thing, but with a brush, then a mop. They don't like the hoover here; it is always the broom) and has told me a lot about the old style of Spanish farm, like our cortijo, with the wood, cane and plaster ceilings; they are rare now and it has been a labour of love or as he said "un trabajo de chino" - a Chinaman's job - to clean them up, taking off the old plaster and varnishing the cane and the beams. In the old days, they used lime to clean them and keep them white, apparently, and some thing called "azul", which is blue, and is now a huge nuisance to get off.

The whole effect is very dark and traditional, contrasting with the still rather rough white walls. So, there are no mirrors. I could get some bright lights, but it wouldn't look right, so it's probably better if I just do without. It is a hard business, trying to become local, like an elaborate camouflage, or disguise, where you rub down all those features that stand out. When I hear the echo of myself talking, which you often do on our phone, I try harder and harder to lose the English intonation, that so characteristically English way of swallowing words. I try to get the right tone when I say "por nada," (no trouble? it's nothing? ok? - a way conversations about someone doing something often end) or "y ya esta," (there you are, that's it, that's all), as they do. It isn't just accent; it is a whole way of being, and I imagine the process is rather like a sex change, like trying to turn yourself inside out and reverse what you did before - helped so much by the fact that however perverse the work is, it is your heart's desire to do so. In this context, what's a mirror more or less?