Dear Andrea,

Yes, we are in Andalusia. We travelled all the way to the Cabo de Gata Nature Park, in the very South of Spain, in order to hear Spanish families scream at each other and play loud, inferior music over their stereos (usually placed outside.)

Such is life at a camping site. Mostly, we stay in the wild, in Burke's little Westfalia motor home, but sometimes I cannot take the extreme lack of luxury anymore, and need proper bathing facilities, as well as washing machines, dryers and nanny services for Barnaby. 

Burke driving his Westfalia in Biarritz

I keep having to go to Recepción, in order to get help with the internet, or buy coins for the washer. The girl at the counter has a huge, balloon like belly which she supports with both hands as she rises, with great difficulty, whenever I report to her desk. I would love to say "My dear girl, you are pregnant - don't get up!" but under no circumstances will I do that. The risk of error is too great. I have erred at least a dozen times, in my life. Because apparently, even if a woman looks like she is 9 months pregnant with a baby elephant, she is just out of shape in a weird way, and will react with great indignation if I ask her when the little one is due.

It's not my fault. I have always had a perfect figure, and I can't be expected to distinguish between balloon shaped body fat, accumulating entirely in the lower abdomen, and gestation. An elephant is pregnant for 2 years, did you know that? 

The Westfalia getting towed in San Sebastian

Oh drat, my internet connection is very slow...Shall have to report back to Recepción. I almost feel guilty, when that whale of a girl gets up, with such obvious exhausted misery, to tend to my internet problems. Instead of saying "when's the baby due?" I think I will just advise her to lay off the deep fried octopus. Will have to look that up in my Berlitz Spanish for Travellers booklet, as well as "for goodness' sake, you almost look as if you are pregnant."

Love,

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

Moving dr. Veltman, and taking driving lessons. I don't know where to start - all this has taken quite a toll on me.

The Floozy (dr. Veltman's girlfriend) has decided he must move closer to her. I don't know why. She says it's because he is old, and starting to become a little infirm. (Starting...?! The man was infirm at 35. How poorly does this creature know him.) She "wants to be close so that she can help when he needs it". 

I resent this. Helping dr. Veltman is my task, isn't it? And I take it seriously. I remember 20 years back he ran for a bus - it was the first time he had run, or walked briskly, since his high school days (when the unfortunate event occurred in which he knocked out a girl while throwing to the ground his bat in a game of softball - he cleared a full home run before he realized everybody else had stopped playing, to gather around the poor girl), and he of course broke his foot, the metatarsus to be precise. He didn't tell me about it for a week but when I found out I went all the way to the Bijlmermeer area with a pan of soup - not an easy trip! Usually dr. Veltman drives me everywhere, but for the first time in my life I had to take the subway. Can you imagine it? Me in those filthy carriages? But I did it, when there was no floozy around to pretend to care about him. Someone had to step up to the plate.

Haven't I always been there for him, Joanie? I can't count the number of times I've offered to buy him oranges when he had the flu. Of course dr. Veltman always has the flu. You know what he's like, such a drama queen. He won't eat fruit for the life of him, so there was never any point in my going, but I'd have gone to the Bijlmermeer on the bus and then the subway just to give him those oranges. Because I care.

And now suddenly, after decades, this Floozy steps in and pretends to know what's good for him. He has to live close to her! Which of course means she's simply too lazy to take her ass to the Bijlmer. Some people want to have everything in life handed to them. Sorry to be so rude, my dear - the floozy's very existence has a coarsening effect on me. Even my hands seem to feel less smooth, these days.

Well, I won't make a scene. That's just not me. I suspect she is in it strictly for the money. My, will she have a rude awakening when she inherits all of 350 Euros. All he possesses in the world that's of any value is his collection of Märklin miniature trains. And which child wants those, in this computer age? I'd love to see the look on her face, oh, Joanie, it will be hysterical!!

Love,

Lisa

Dear Lonnie,

I'd never claim all my friends are beautiful - in fact, Joanie is downright ugly, if I must be blunt. Poor pet - don't ever tell her I said that. And you know that my thesis is that you don't really notice a woman is ugly if she wears make-up and the right clothes. Which she doesn't, by the way. The girl is stubborn as a mule, quite apart from looking like one. I love her dearly, of course.

But I was downright frightened when I came across this photo. How can people look like this? How does it happen? Is it a terrible disease? An accident, in which the couple were both involved? How distressing this must be for those close to them...

Oh wait. This didn't quite work. Let me blow up the main offending part of this picture...

Well, that's all, for now. I really needed to let you know. It's the biggest thing that's happened to me all day. I won't sleep, tonight.

Dear Joanie,

Got lost, this morning. Burke’s fault, for pointing out to me that I’ve gained two pounds since last year. I was horrified, and decided to walk to the village in the morning, instead of going by car.

First time I’ve ever done that – it’s only a few hundred meters, but I couldn’t figure out for the life of me which path to take, and which one not to, amid all those wretched vineyards here in the Bordeaux area.

Reminds me of a time in Russia with Peter. We’d had another thunderous fight, you know how temperamental he was, and I resolved to walk off by myself – let him stew a little. Like meat, men get tenderer and more palatable when left in the pan for longish whiles. This was in the swamp lands south of Suzdal. Suzdal is a touristy spot, but guess what? The swamp lands under Suzdal are not, as it turned out!

And of course the Russian peasants living there didn’t speak one word of English, so it was all rather disastrous. I believe I’ve been walking round and round, in the scorching sun, for five hours. Very bad for the complexion. I came back so exhausted and unnerved that the wholesome effects of stewing were completely lost. Peter lay perfectly happily zapping Russian television in our hotel room. You can imagine how furious I was.

Lots of mosquitoes, at the moment. And they always go for the better quality of blood, don’t they? Pulled the sheets completely off of Burke, last night, as he slept on his stomach, his bare back forming the perfect landing area. And still those wretched creatures went after me. Isn’t it always like that?

Love,

Lisa

Dear Joanie,

I’m thinking that what I really need is a widower. Burke is wonderful, of course, but he’s a serial divorcer, and though I don’t think for a moment he would want to ditch me (one has to be modest, but what man in his right mind has ever ditched me?), it makes for a difficult experience.

They get so contentious, don’t they. Divorcés, I mean.  The widower, on the other hand, is saddened by his loss, humbled by fate as it were, and eternally grateful to find a new mother for his children. Even if his children are 45, as Jason’s were, when he so forcefully pursued me. The widower knows the value of life and of love, and doesn’t want to waste another minute arguing. Which, preferably, results in him agreeing with me in most things. Or at least a damn sight more often than Burke does. 

If you think of it, Burke, through his many combative marriages, has been trained to fight. And he has been trained by one of the best in the field – I am speaking of Alice, of course. So his neurons are lined up to get argumentative and heated at the drop of a hat. Which means I have to be the mature party, and though as you know I pride myself on being very tolerant and wise, in spite of my precocious age (“old as a sequoia, young as a fawn”, I once wrote in a poem about myself), it takes a toll on my nerves to be the adult. If I wanted children, I’d have them the ordinary way, you see what I mean?

If divorcés are hardened combatants, Burke is a Green Beret. He ambushes, he snipes, he carpet bombs. I am getting severely fatigued from being the adult. Perhaps I should encourage him to take up a hobby. Like Thai boxing or oil wrestling, what do you think?

Dear Dottie,

My tennis playing days are definitively over. Went to the club last night with dr. Veltman – not that he plays, of course. Dr. Veltman has never touched a ball in his life.

Oh, untrue – he informs me that he played soft ball in grammar school, as an unfit 15 year old. He was awful at it, but did once score a homerun. There was strangely little opposition, he noticed, as he ran his round of glory around the bases. When he arrived, triumphantly, at home base, he saw a group of people standing around something. They turned angrily to him. In their midst lay, on the ground, a girl. Turned out that after he had struck the ball – in itself a most unexpected event – and thrown the bat away to start his run, the bat had hit a classmate in the head. She was unconscious. He doesn’t know what became of her.

At the club, dr. Veltman drinks wine and smokes small cigars, staring at the players in an off-putting way. Now and then he shakes his head slowly and sadly, which can put less confident tennis players right off their service..

I happened to watch a women’s game (no men playing, or I wouldn’t have, of course) and it was not pretty. These women have no sense of dress or dignity. A huge girl, fairly young, carried frightening amounts of fat on her stomach. As I’ve always said: all women should watch their figure, but tall girls should subside on dry salt crackers entirely. If there’s too much of you on one axis, you can’t afford branching out on another axis.

Not only was this girl huge, she wore her t shirt tucked into her shorts. I wouldn’t have dreamed of showing up in anything but a stylish tailor made skirt, in my day – mind you, nothing so extravagant as these Williams girls wear on the tour. Flashy and vulgar. But shorts on a woman are just horrifying. This girl’s looked to be made of nylon, and very tightly followed her giant thighs. 

And as she stood there, labouring away at her service, sweat glistening on that big forehead, I realized at once that I can never play again. How could I try to beat such a girl, whose day depends on a win in these silly club championships? She has nothing else in her life!

I know I’m famous for saying plain girls have it easy, and on the whole that is true – any moderately confident plain girl has the world as her oyster. But there are of course limits as to how far you can push being plain. And she pushed the envelope. I would have been unable to muster the will to beat this girl. As I’d look at that desperate, red face, and the large, awkward, labouring body, I would have been frightened lest the last bit of light would depart from those lifeless, tragic eyes.

So I shall play no more. Oh, a little mixed double now and then, purely for recreational purposes – but no competition. Truly, if I weren’t so soft hearted, I would probably have been a formidable player. I have fabulous technique, my teacher always told me (and not only at tennis, he said, but that’s another subject.) I suppose I might have made it to Wimbledon.

Bought a book called “Controlling People” by Patricia Evans. What do you think – there’s no instructions in it, whatever! False advertising I call that. I will toss it into the bin.

Love,

Lisa