It's November And My Arse Is Still Being Roasted

No ! Arse roasting is not some modern sexual technique that I am engaging in for a tad too long and thus risking permanent injury. Although the number of sexual practices that have garnered names in the last few years only reinforces my theory that every generation deludes itself that it has invented sex. The truth is that our great grandmothers were probably tea bagging people in a horse drawn cart. But I digress.

What I am actually referring to is the fact that it's still 25-30 degrees here. Not that I'm complaining, it's almost as if someone forgot to turn off the summer switch, and turn on winter. And it means that my cool shades are lasting well beyond their sell-by date. But when November rolls round and you see the first plastic fir trees start to ominously appear, it seems a bit odd to be debating whether to go to the beach or not. And when one is lost in a strange part of the city - as I was on Friday - it can be uncomfortable to march confidently in the wrong direction, only to have to retrace your steps 5 minutes later under the burning sun.

This part of Spain is very warm, and that's part of the attraction, but you do get to a point where you actually fancy a cold Sunday, an epic roast dinner, a few slurps of red wine and then the glorious prospect of falling asleep in front of a war film. Not too much mind, because sunshine is addictive and once you get an almost unlimited supply you tend to wilt without any. But given the time of year it is odd to be going out in a T-shirt and then finding yourself pouring with sweat after a brief stroll. My winter coat is hanging in the closet looking very forlorn, wondering if it's had its last button done up. But fear not my old friend, because in December we go to England and you will be centre stage and man of the match !