A home abroad

I’ve spent the last few days in Murcia. My parents were there just four weeks before they found a place, paid for it and moved in. It’s a new build so the legal bits were over ridiculously quickly and yes, it’s settled. I think we’re all a bit dazed… if you have an urge to see photos they’re over here. It’s a lovely place, nice and big in a proper Spanish street as opposed to some complex with Brits renting them out as holiday homes with their screaming brats running everywhere. There’s a resident’s pool, which I love; during the day it’s empty and it’s perfect for doing leisurely laps. If I had a pool like that 40 metres away from my house I would lose my muffin top like that. (The fact I have Ladywell Pool a short walk from my house is neither here nor there; swimming when you have to get changed to walk home again isn’t the same as wandering, dripping, home wrapped in a towel, and then drying off on the terrace with a drink and a book.) And they’ve got a massive cellar which doubles as a garage with rolling shutters, which opens out into an enclosed garage space – the car drives up a steep slope and out some automatic doors into the street. I’ve christened it the Batcave, for fairly obvious reasons…

All in all, a damn sight better than Leeds! Though, somewhat disturbingly, they seem to have landed in the middle of what I’m terming the Morley mafia (Morley being the suburb where I was born and bred; do keep up). The estate agent that sold my parents the house? From Morley. The people who run the fish and chip shop in Los Alcazares? From Morley. (Yes, yes; typical that one of the few offensively English shops in the place would be Morleian.) The Welshman that we were drinking with on Saturday evening knew our old local very well. The guy who runs the internet cafe is from Tingley – the other side of Morley. OK, I know Jet2 have been flying from Leeds and Bradford airport for a few years now, but this is fucking ridiculous.

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