It was late afternoon. Simon, Mum and I had just got back from spending our usual long day at the beach. We were all finding it difficult to muster up the energy needed to put our skates on for the next part of our day. It had been a typical enjoyable day at Catalan Bay. Friends and family jabbering away in a mix of Spanish and English. Mesmerizing deep blue sea, swelling at just the right moment, creating that perfect puffy foam at the crest of the wave before crashing down onto the golden sandy shore. Beautiful, bronzed bodies, young and old alike, sunbathing, swimming, jogging, sitting, chatting, laughing. I’m sure if you were to look down from the air you’d find it hard to spot one yellow speck of sand. The sounds of the Cathedral bells rang loud in our ears. We were late. The apartment was the third door along a narrow passageway, opposite the Rock of Gibraltar’s only Cathedral, and three floors up a very steep set of stairs. We were running at this point

“Me first” said Simon galloping ahead of both Mum and I. He was waving his arms about like an orangutan with a huge grin plastered on his face. Nothing could dampen his eternally cheerful spirit. We couldn’t rush in all together, we had to go single file, first down the passage way, then through the tiny front door, then up the stairs. Once in the apartment, grandma came to the rescue, throwing towels at us so we can brush off the excess sand that we might have missed upon leaving the beach and a brush or comb to tease our sea matted hair into some sort of respectable array. “Andaya!” she shouted in her native Spanish, hurrying us along. “No time showers” she continued in her broken English.  I ran to the bathroom to throw some water on my face.  I could taste the salt on my lips and felt the sand scratch inside and behind my ears. Grandma was beautifully turned out, her hair all prim and proper, pleated iron trousers, starched white blouse. She had that unimpressed look that she usually reserved for my Mum. The phone rang. Mum dashed to grab it before Grandma could get it. “Aye, por dios Patrisha” she said to Mum “no time to speak to him now!” Dad always called at this time. Always the wrong time according to Grandma. But with the time difference it was the only time we could talk to him. “Come on kids” Mum shouted “a quick hello to Daddy, then we go”.