The April 2014 Portugal excerpts

The fine golden hairs on my arm dance in the soft sea breeze.
A seagull the size of a small child waddles past chirping in Portuguese.
What is the correct word to describe the sound a seagull makes?
It's more of a squalk than a chirp. Is 'squalk' even a word?
My trail of thought is quickly interrupted by two sets of conversations taking place in close proximity.
One in fiery, passionate italian. The other in harsh, blunt Nottinghamshire English.
The two clash in the air above my head.
I look up with furrowed eyebrows as if I can literally see the words crashing into each other in the air.
It sounds like an orchestra trying to perform at Glastonbury with Dizzee Rascal as the conductor.
My mind wonders again...
I noticed the lonely old podgy man shuffling across my view of the sea. He's got two ice boxes slung over his shoulders occasionally yelling out "Ice cream."
I have instant flash backs of some guy who could be this guys twin, doing the exact same thing in Mexico last August.
Isn't it weird that old podgy men patrol the beaches across all the beaches on this planet selling ice-creams and other sugary assortments?
Do they all hold an international conferences for this line of work?
Is there a "Podgy old ice-cream selling beach shuffler of the year award?"
If there isn't there should be.
While debating this with myself as I stare at him, I realise I wouldn't mind whatever it is he's selling.
It's like 30 degrees.
I hop up off my lounger and grab me and the missus a Coke, a Fanta and a white chocolate Magnum ice cream.
The best bit of business I've conducted today by far.
I smile to myself as I tear off the wrapper.
My people watching becomes frustratingly difficult with shards of white chocolate slipping off my ice cream.
Sorry, sandy beach, as much as I love you... you cannot have ANY of my ice cream.
Cheek.
Get your own.


Joshua, TCC