Later that morning, as there was nothing better to do than build an ark and find two of every animal to take aboard, I joined my parents on their weekly outing to a local charity group.

“Spot the person under the age of fifty” I thought, scanning the room. The group was holding a sale of disintegrating tat to raise funds for the centre. I glanced at the sorry- looking possessions on show.

“How about this vase for your new apartment?” asked my Mum, trying to transform a bad situation into a good.

The vase in question looked like it belonged in a museum or other place of historical significance. It was even turning that rotten yellow colour, which is a frequent vision on The Antiques Roadshow. I rolled my eyes and shuffled to the fairy cake stall to lift my dampened spirits by eating. It was very disappointing, when, after months anticipating a new and fab life in Spain, I resorted to being chatted up by wrinkly retirees. Walking sticks, varicose veins, false teeth and purple rinse weren’t on my ‘hot topic’ conversation list.

“You can always join our knitting club if you’re looking for something to do,” said an old dear, who introduced herself as Deirdre. “I’m making a beautiful crocheted cardigan at the moment in blue. I already have one in grey…”

“I have six great grandchildren you know?” croaked a ninety-six year old called Vera, rummaging through her brown leather handbag. “Let’s see if I can find some photos. They’re so adorable. Katie, the eldest, is doing ever so well at school. They think she’s a genius, would you believe?”

I feigned a smile, but I wasn’t in the least interested.

“Would you like a mint?” she continued, leaning on her walking stick.

“No. Thank you,” I said, glaring at the rotting packet, which appeared to have been purchased in 1982.

Where were all the young people to talk about Big Brother, that new flavour of vodka and who shagged who in last night’s episode of Sex and the City?

Taken from the chapter entitled “Bad Luck”

As my relationship with Dave the mountain climber progressed, I learnt more about what made him tick. I found it hard to fathom his obsession with the temperature. He recorded the morning and afternoon degrees Celsius every day onto a graph on his computer.

“Why do you that?” I asked.

“It’s really so that if anyone says it’s definitely colder now than it was this time last year, I can check my graph and tell them that actually they’re wrong.” He went on to say that last year in Lanjarón the temperature was under thirty degrees for X amount of days and over thirty degrees for Y number of days. The information darted in one ear and out the other.

“I also make a note of the wind speed” he said. After an adequate pause the conversation continued, this time broaching a different subject.

“I’ve made a mosquito repellent” he said, a tad too excited.

“Great!” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“It’s a secret recipe so I won’t tell you what’s in it, but it really works. I rubbed it all over me earlier. A mosquito landed on me for just a second or two then flew away. It takes a while to make though. I’ve had it sitting here in the sun for a week or so.”

‘Why don’t you just go and buy some,’ I thought. ‘Much quicker and much less hassle.’

“It sounds really cool” I said. “You’ll have to show me when I see you next.” At the time I didn’t realise that would mean smothering my entire body in the smelly, greasy concoction.

“Go on, rub it all over,” he said as we sat around his swimming pool. “You won’t get bitten, it’s a proven formula. I’ve been testing it all week.”

By the end of it I felt like I had been rolling around in an oil-rig and I sure didn’t smell too hot; a cross between a mouldy garlic clove and a bottle of vinegar. Dave had some odd traits, but I put them down to his age. Maybe when I reached forty-three, I would start recording the temperature every morning and inventing strange concoctions too.