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Peter Edgerton
Malaga
Friday, 14 February 2025, 12:42
Many and varied are the discombobulating characteristics of an early morning start. From that song you heard yesterday that you never liked echoing incessantly around your head on a loop, to the strange, unidentifiable watery secretion in your mouth; from the alarm you set to 'spiritual chimes' but that actually sounds more like 'raging tinnitus', to the general feeling of nausea and ennui that permeates every cell of your body; from puffy-eyed strangers passing like yesterday's ghosts on their way to work to the keening existential angst gnawing unforgivingly at your soul.
Not to worry, though. If you're unfortunate enough to have to get up early, all of these factors can be dealt with by sporting the stiffest of upper lips and a stoic disregard for social norms and courtesy until real life starts about 11pm.
This week a professional painter and decorator was coming to paint my house and some of the work would, apparently, require two pairs of hands. We arranged to meet at some ungodly hour and I braced myself for all of the above symptoms plus a few that I'd all-too-readily forgotten about. Grunting and dribbling in equal measure, I greeted Pepe at the door as he bounced in, possessed of a level of joie-de-vivre last seen at a six-year-old's birthday party. He told me what to do and I set about my task, feigning enthusiasm rather convincingly I'd like to think.
All was going as well as could be expected until, quite suddenly, things took a distinct turn for the worst. Unbeknownst to me, Pepe had secreted a nineteen-eighties style, paint-speckled ghetto blaster into my home. Worse, the radio was tuned to his favourite programme - an early morning show involving a man shouting a lot about nothing in between songs specifically designed to make you grate your teeth. I was on the horns of a dilemma - it was, after all, my house and I could set the rules. On the other hand, if a man's going to be painting your property for the next five hours or so, you'd want him to be in a positive frame of mind while doing so, wouldn't you?
Man, they were a long five hours. I tried to zone out by reciting Leonard Cohen lyrics but couldn't help hearing the DJ yelling about how his cat got lost for five days and something about making marmalade. Or maybe it was the song Lady Marmalade and a comment about Cat Stevens. I really couldn't say. Reggaeton was certainly involved, though - I distinctly remember that and one particular song with lyrics so graphic they would have made a docker blush.
Eventually, it was over. The rest of the work that was left Pepe could do alone, he told me.
I may have let slip a little yelp of joy as I toddled off upstairs for a nap.
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