Holiday bliss

The four of us are sitting at a corner table in Marbella - that of the sea, the shops and the unexpected sunshine - in our hotel bar reading our books: P is deep into The Post Office Girl by Stefan Zweig with a cold cup of coffee in front of her; T is thoroughly enjoying Italian Shoes by Henning Mankell with the remains of a bottle of Coke being cleared away by the bar girl. G, with a very pleasant glass of rosé in hand, is on the second part of The Notebook, The Proof and The Third Lie by Agota Kristof, an intriguing novel that I may have to reread; and I am stuck into another Mankell, The Man from Beijing, that is so enjoyable. For once we aren't yacking away but are absorbed in our other worlds, the amiable chatter of our fellow residents burbling away in the background, the musak a gentle thrum of guitar. Oh but this is bliss!