There’s a feeling of newness creeping over the land of the smiling mule. Summer’s end. The other Andaloo has packed his satchel and returned to school, my work phone will start ringing again next week and the whole circus we call real life is about to start again.

The village sits on the side of a hill and its road winds up to the castle, but if you miss the (unsigned) turn at the top you find yourself lost in a maze of small, very steep streets. The old crones that live at the top of my street love the summer. They drag arm chairs from their houses and set up camp on the cobbles, their sport, cackling at the traffic. As drivers turn the corner and see the width of the street a look of terror spreads over their faces and they stop to assess the situation right where the crones sit. Big mistake. They’re told there’s no way their car will fit the street and the best idea would be to reverse back around the corner and up the hill. It’s a cackle fest, but by the end of August it’s just not fun anymore. The arm chairs have gone and the crones have gone back to watching television at ear splitting volume.

I don’t have a television, so listen to the radio instead. I love local radio because it’s so bad, but during the summer even that plummets to mind boggling lows. I heard an interview with a ventriloquist … nuff said. Another day they had a twenty strong group of flamenco dancers in the studio, so they aired two hours of foot stamping. Best of all though was the day they did a make-up demonstration.

All that will start to change from now. As the shadows get longer the lost tourists get fewer. As the local politicians return after their summer break the radio station will have scandal to report again. As for the crones, they’ll always be here; they’ll just have changed into their over-sized orange cardigans.