Great song; possibly The Fania All Stars or Celia Cruz. You might recall it issuing from a dreadful ’60s or ’70s radiogram in some distant relative’s front room, or if you were unlucky, your own. Sunday afternoon Family Favourites.
Well the sol had caliented quite enough on the beach this morning, when for the umpteenth day in succession there were The Phantom Chairs. No, not a Post Punk group in the mould of The Psychadelic Furs or The Thirteenth Floor Elevators, but six beach chairs arranged in “primer fila” or front row taking up some three metres of prime beach space – and as ever, uninhabited, which is how they remain every day. That’s it! Enough is enough. I scurried up to the flat and dug out a piece of hardboard and a crayon, with which I fashioned a sign “Alquiler sillas €2” (chairs for hire 2€) On return to the beach, I propped it up in front of the chairs
Business was brisk, and within twenty minutes, I had them all rented to the tune of 12€ – more than enough for a couple of beers and some tapas. So we skipped off for same, only stopping to listen in to the growing hubbub which was developing twixt the chairs’ owners and their ‘sitting tenants’ (so to speak) before turning the corner.
However, before I get too self-congratulatory over this victory over breach of beach protocol, etiquette and bad manners, I ought to admit only half of this story is true. I’ll leave it to you to work out which…