Diary – 31 August 2002
The workers teem over the building site that suddenly appeared on the overgrown river-bed which my holiday cottage overlooks. They like to get an early start before the merciless Andalusian sun starts roasting their leathery hides. A couple of hours before breakfast a raucous but not unappealing cacophony of tuned power tools fills the air. The whine of the electric saw is particularly poignant at that time of the morning, reminding me of someone trying to perform the oeuvre of Poulenc using the contents of the Black & Decker catalogue.