by Brett Harper

I’m sat in front of the silent computer, hands hovering with a bit of luck over the keys, willing the terms I use so freely on each daily basis to move from body to generation.  I promised myself I’d write a witty account of our relocation but regrettably, my getting older grey count has other thoughts.

I near my eyes, trying not to forget the way it felt as we took our first steps into our New life inside the Sun all the one’s months in the past.  I rub my brow and appearance out toward the mountains thru the window, searching for divine inspiration from my elasticated smalls that are presently wafting themselves dry on a hastily erected revolving line. I can also as accurately convey the showering in a while, waiting for the cascade of witty liners to take up house in my currently uninhabited brain. However, they provide no phrases of knowledge, no longer even a gap pun.  I sigh and rise from my seat.


Letting myself out onto the balcony, I kick an unidentifiable chewed canine toy alongside the tiles for ‘Brian the brave’ who hurls himself along the slippery surface, performing a skater’s flip before his head makes contact with the lower back wall.  I choose up more than one useless leaves from a potted plant and then saunter returned interior to the welcoming glare of the empty pc display — a clap of thunder echoes overhead.  I trap a glimpse of many T-shirts nonetheless waving at me on the road and set free an audible sigh.  How the hell I will recreate our adventures onto Spanish soil from over four months in the past if I can’t even consider ushering in my smooth cotton when I’m standing right in the front of them!

Slamming the laptop lid resolutely shut, I stand up and mumble profanities all the manner to the biscuit tin and eat several sponge palms before I’ve even made it to the consolation of the couch.  Brian does his best Paul McKenna’s death stare, inclined the sugary treats to fall in his course while shadowing me from room to room.

“If I give you a digestive, will you move and write my Blog for me?”  I enquire to the salivating hound, but the canine one merely is too busy drowning in his expectant dribble to stick to my pleas.

My husband strolls into the living room, scratching his early morning shadow at the same time as simultaneously breaking wind, takes one observe my thunderous expression and crumb-laden torso, and right away leaves the room once more.  “Don’t neglect you have that audition today for KES at the theatre at 3 pm,” he yells from the safety of the kitchen. “You’ll be precise in that function, the mother in that could be right distress, you could do some approach performing!”

Within two hours, I am converted from Ena Sharples into Ivy Tilsley with make-up and hairspray applied and kitten heels decorated.  Standing outside the theatre bar, I sense a nervous flutter of exhilaration, armed best with the chance of status on an unexpected level with just a script and my ego handy.

People of every age are milling round tables, comparing characters, and perfecting Yorkshire accents.  I take a seat at the outskirts watching the women my personal age chat exact naturedly to each other earlier than their name is called and that they head towards the level, the large doorways last behind them, their rendition of this Northern traditional to be heard simplest by the directors in price.

I toy with the idea of having a speedy vodka beforehand to calm my nerves; however, then decide ‘Karaoke Kes’ won’t be what they may be searching out.  I see a few familiar faces sat on the desk opposite and smile uncertainly in their route. However, I am not invited into the inner sanctum; I have as, but to earn my stripes, I appearance down on the script before me and mumble random lines into my diet coke.

“Paula Lesk….Lesch…Lasch….Moskovitz?”  I carry my hand uncertainly and upward push from my seat and head towards the Theatre doors.  An old woman locations a range on my shirt, and I look down.  Number 13, just my sodding success. Straightening my shoulders and fluffing up my hair, I area a nervous hand onto the velvet-clad door and input the unknown. Two guys are sat ready by way of the level, fingers outstretched, and smiles are adorning their assured faces. “Ah, I take it you are lighting fixtures men wife, we’ve heard all approximately you” they laugh conspiratorially. Taking a deep breath, I look at them without delay in the attention, and my first-rate Yorkshire accent reply “Yeh, I guess you bloody ave!”

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